















\ 







e 







t 


I 


% 


i 





I 


CAST ADRIFT. 

(FR0>’TISPIECE.) 


See page o2. 


S' 


Cast Adrift. 


\ 





BY 

T, S,^ARTHUR, 



PHILADELPHIA 4 

J. M*. STODDART &.CO. 

CINCINNATI: QUEEN CITY PUBLISHING CO. 

NEW YORK: WM. GIBSON, Jr. BOSTON: GEO. MACLEAN. CHICAGO, 
ILLS. : JOHN E. MILLER & CO. NEW CASTLE, PA.: J. B. STEWART. 
SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.: F. DEWING & CO. 

1873 . 


r ' 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
J. M. STODDART & CO., 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


TO THE READER. 


In this romance of real life, in which the truth is 
stranger than the fiction, I have lifted only in part 
the veil that hides the victims of intemperance and 
other terrible vices — after they have fallen to the 
lower deeps of degradation to be found in our large 
jciti es, where the vile and degraded herd together more 
like wild beasts than men and women — and told the 
story of sorrow, suffering, crime and debasement as 
they really exist in Christian America with all the 
earnestness and power that in me lies. 

Strange and sad and terrible as are some of the 
scenes from which I have drawn this veil, I have not 
told the half of what exists. My book, apart from 
the thread of fiction that runs through its pages, is 
but a series of photographs from real life, and is less 
a work of the imagination than a record of facts. 

If it stirs the hearts of American readers pro- 
foundly, and so awakens the people to a sense of 

7 


8 


TO THE READER. 


their duty; if it helps to inaugurate more earnest 
and radical modes of reform for a state of society 
of which a distinguished author has said, There is 
not a country throughout the earth on which it would 
not bring a curse ; there is no religion upon the earth 
that it would not deny ; there is no people upon the 
earth it would not put to shame — then will not my 
work be in vain. 

Sitting in our comfortable homes with well-fed, 
well-clothed and happy-hearted children about us — • 
children who have our tenderest care, whose cry of 
pain from a pin-prick or a fall on the carpeted floor 
hurts us like a blow — how few of us know or care 
anything about the homes in which some other chil- 
dren dwell, or of the hard and' cruel battle for life 
they are doomed to fight from the very beginning ! 

To get out from these comfortable homes and from 
the midst of tenderly cared-for little ones, and stand 
face to face with squalor and hunger, with suffer- 
ing, debasement and crime, to look upon the starved 
faces of children and hear their helpless cries, is what 
scarcely one in a thousand will do. It is too much 
for our sensibilities. And so we stand aloof, and the 
sorrow and suffering, the debasement, the wrong and 
the crime, go on, and because we heed it not we 
vainly imagine that np responsibility lies at our 


TO THE BEADEB. 


9 


door ; and yet there is no man or woman who is not, 
according to the measure of his or her influence, 
responsible for the human debasement and suffering 
I have portrayed. 

The task I set for myself has not been a pleasant 
one. It has hurt my sensibilities and sickened my 
heart many times as I stood face to face with the 
sad and awful degradation that exists in certain 
regions of our larger cities ; and now that my work 
is done, I take a deep breath of relief. The result 
is in your hands, good citizen, Christian reader, earn- 
est philanthropist ! If it stirs your heart in the read- 
ing as it stirred mine in the writing, it will not die 
fruitless. 


THE AUTHOK. 




I /■ 


> 


.Pc • • ^ 


.- w,. ■ 


» 4 




•^7 ^ -• 






» ^ 


M-'y-'. .-‘N ■,■•>'?■ 


I V- ' -A 

. r* 






» ^ 

I 


’V 


»*■ 

r\* 


> • 




.'iiir • .'• • 


i j •. 


•’ r , 




9Tfr ' Tf- Ti 


I « 


s 

!• 


• -S' *• - 

’*• ^ ?'• ■ iJ&it 





. s 

vl 




G-' 

^ V4 


Wi’^f'-v.' 

f* • 




- ' /r" "T-'^/‘ 

w.*' V ^ 


> 


N v>.- ' ■ 



• t 


«v 


^ » 


» 

w 




•f 




-- • 


4 i 


-i. ■-' 


^ -Arf 


r 


■ \'‘ ‘V 

>• « 


« « 

4. ; 1 ' r 






. > 



0m h , ^ 


i'V’ 


• * 

•*’.r /.. 


^ 1^^. >1. 


J • V 


» 




i).. 








'rU 

A 


'♦>' 1. . 


.•' r,/ 


t • * 

A >. - 




-■ • r 




- < 


* % 




t. 






¥ r 


^ • I ' • ' 

:'i^’ v?'>w 

•- 


,v 


» /- 


i * ^ 


i» > . 


.-w 







.'C.‘ 


I 

. • _ ♦ 




C^s. 1 

: ' ^ •• •. 1 


>'4 


*4 


y 


> V 3\ 


'■'li 

•V ; 




V -At - ^ 

' ' - 1 * > 




-‘■1. 






»♦ 




;, ^‘JC. 



V 


. , ? r . 

ti\ f '• , 


I . f 


\. * 


^ ' ■ ' ... (rr, - 


. . t !■/ •«.• 

A •.-« 


1. . *1 


i • • 




» j 


X < 


* • 


f 




V 4 • 

' .s *, 


* m 

. k>^»X^’ 


r*iAi,^., . 


■ • V 






A. 


A*. 




I 

*v.. 




A. 

i 


'.Vi- 


N 


• 0^ • ♦ 

/ • ^ V 






. i 


C ;« 


• ^ V 

- -^ r t 

1 


A*. 


* *• w 

•• ^ ATT 


« I < 

i 

4 M 


' - ’ -■ . -^- * ' 


iW 


y. <•• 4. 


» • 4"- 






- M 7.1 • •.* '* 

m^’:- ': .. 


. ^.•. • v> - ■ 

>-• ' . . ' V ' ,•» 

»• -4 * 'i- ■ 




■ > ..\S . -J ■ 

A-:;. ^ 



iii ■ .j'.tf”’ 


•V 

. M 




»4 

-w .^4 






• > 




.•r 


•f- 


. -v 


•». 


ry^ 


\% 


Iv' 


r S. 


^ i w 







— .J 


*w 


. 'v- 



vi 


v'‘^- 

r’ - . I » ! 


t- 


. S) \ 


*¥ 




f V* ‘ ■ ' 


« % 


. 4 /. 


m 


>•} 


'■m.. ■; 

** ‘<V 

» • k 4 ^ # 




vi ^^^ ' ’ ■ § 


•J 


• A 








' ^ ^ \A- •- 


•« 

e. ’ 


.*i 




•i- .k. 


• i* 


^ ^' •‘ 4'*.- 


w» 


'‘!V^ ■wiJV' ■' ' •*' ' ' -•' 




1 


Jm. 



, V V 


i 


« I 

li « ^ 
f * 

'h s 

t 


14 r /r^ /i 


,1 


.•?r‘ 

» 


4S- 'I 

> "• 


;- 'I • i •' • .rr^ t ’• ■‘. ' 

■- •'.♦.'i.. 4 '. 1*^ ^ ’ 

• 7 . - •* • t < s T- . ^ ^ ^ 


^i;> '■r-:r^i-:' ■:' . :.i: . t- * 



•/V ’ • •/ M .p % 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 1. 

PAGE 

The unwelcojjae babe — The defriiuded young mother — The 
struggle between life and death — “ Your baby is in heaven ” 

— A brief retrospect — A marriage for social position — An 
ambitious wife and a disappointed husband — The young 
daughter — The matrimonial market — The Circassian slaves 
of modern society — The highest bidder — Disappearance — 

The old sad story— Secret marriage — The letters — Disap- 
pointed ambition — Interview between the parents — The 
mother’s purpose — “ Baffled, but not defeated” — The father’s 
surprise — The returned daughter — Forgiven — “I am not 
going away again, father dear ” — Insecurity and distrust.... 21 

CHAPTER II. 

The hatred of a bad woman — Mrs. Dinneford’s plans for the 
destruction of Granger — Starting in business — Plots of Mrs. 
Dinneford and Freeling — The discounted notes — The trap 
— Granger’s suspicions aroused — Forgery — Mrs. Dinneford 
relentless — The arrest — Fresh evidence of' crime upon 
Granger’s person — The shock to Edith — ‘‘ That night her 
baby was born” 33 


11 


12 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER III. 

PAGE 

“ It is a splendid boy” — A convenient, non-interfering family 
doctor — Cast adrift — Into the world in a basket, unnamed 
and disowned — Edith’s second struggle back to life — Her 
mind a blank — Granger convicted of forgery — Seeks to 
gain knowledge of his child — The doctor’s evasion and 
ignorance — An insane asylum instead of State’s prison — 
Edith’s slow return to intelligence — “There’s something 
I can’t understand, mother” — “Where is my baby?” — 
“What of George?” — No longer a child, but a broken- 
hearted woman — The divorce 49 

CHAPTER IV. 

Sympathy between father and daughter — Interest in public 
charities — A dreadful sight — A sick babe in the arms of a 
half-drunken woman — “ Is there no law to meet such cases ?” 

— “ The poor baby has no vote” — Edith seeks for the grave 
of her child, but cannot find it — She questions her mother, 
who baffles her curiosity — Mrs. Bray’s visit — Interview be- 
tween Mrs. Dinneford and Mrs. Bray— “The baby isn’t 
living?” — “Yes ; I saw it day before yesterday in the arms 
of a beggar-woman” — Edith’s suspicions aroused — Deter- 
mined to discover the fate of her child — Visits the doctor — 
“Your baby is in heaven”— “ Would to God it were so, for 
I saw a baby in hell not long ago !” 58 

CHAPTER V. 

Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. Bray — “ The woman to whom you 
gave that baby was here yesterday” — The woman must be 
put out of the way — Exit Mrs. Dinneford, enter Pinky 


CONTENTS. 


13 


PAGE 

Swett — “ You know your fate — New Orleans and the yellow 
fever” — “ All I want of you is to keep track of the baby” — 
Division of the spoils — Lucky dreams — Consultation of the 
dream-book for lucky figures — Sam McFaddon and his 
backer, who “ drives in the Park and wears a two thousand 
dollar diamond pin” — The fate of a baby begged with — 

The baby must not die — The lottery-policies 71 

CHAPTER VI. 

Rottenness at the heart of a great city — Pinky Swett’s at- 
tempted rescue of a child from cruel beating — The fight — 
Pinky’s arrest — Appearance of the “queen” — Pinky’s re- 
lease at her command — The queen’s home — The screams of 
children being beaten — The rescue of “ Flanagan’s Nell” — 
Death the great rescuer — “ They don’t look after things in 
here as they do outside — Everybody’s got the screws on, and 
things must break sometimes, but it isn’t called murder — 

The coroner understands it all” 84 

CHAPTER VII. 

?inky Swett at the mercy of the crowd in the street — Taken 
to the nearest station-house — Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. 
Bray again — Fresh alarms — “She’s got you in her power” 

— “ Money is of no account” — The knock at the door — Mrs. 
Dinneford in hiding — The visitor gone — Mrs. Bray reports 
the woman insatiable in her demands — Must have two hun- 
dred dollars by sundown — No way of escape except through 
police interference — “ People who deal with the devil gen- 
erally have the devil to pay” — Suspicion — A mistake — 
Sound of feet upon the stairs — Mrs. Dinneford again in hid- 
ing— Enter Pinky Swett— Pinky disposed of— Mrs. Dinne- 
2 


14 


CONTENTS. 


PAGES 


ford again released — Mrs. Bray’s strategy — “Let us be 

• friends still, Mrs. Bray” — Mrs. Dinneford’s deprecation and 
humiliation — Mrs. Bray’s triumph.... 102 

CHAPTEE VIII. 

Mrs. Bray receives a package containing two hundred dollars — 

“ Poor baby ! I must see better to its comfort” — Pinky meets ^ 

a young girl from the country — The “ Ladies’ Eestaurant” — 
Fried oysters and sangaree — ^The “bindery” girl — “My 
head feels strangely” — Through the back alley — The ten- 
cent lodging house — Eobbery — A second robbery — A veil 
drawn — A wild prolonged cry of a woman — The policeman 
listens only for a moment, and then passes on — Foul play — 

“ In all our large cities are savages more cruel and brutal in 
their instincts than the Comanches” — Who is responsible?.. 117 

CHAPTEE IX. 

Valuation of the spoils — The receiver — The “ policy-shop” 
and its customers — A victim of the lottery mania 134 

CHAPTEE X. 

“ Policy-drunkards” — A newly-appointed policeman’s blunder 
— The end of a “ policy-drunkard” — Pinky and her friend 
in consultation over “ a cast-off baby in Dirty alley” — “ If 
you can’t get hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed 
Fanny Bray” — The way to starve a baby — Pinky moves 
her quarters without the use of “a dozen furniture cars” — A 
baby’s home — The baby’s night nurse — The baby’s supper 
— The baby’s bed — How the baby’s money is spent — Where 
the baby’s nurse passes the night — The baby’s disappear- 


ance 


148 


CONTENTS. 


15 


CHAPTEE XI. 

PAGE 

Eeserve between mother and daughter — Mrs. Dinneford dis- 
approves of Edith’s charitable visits — Mrs. Dinneford meets 
Freeling by appointment at a hotel — “ There’s trouble brew- 
ing”— “A letter from George Granger” — Accused of con- 
spiracy — Possibility of Granger’s pardon by the governor 
— An ugly business — In great peril — Freeling’s threats of 
exposure — A hint of an alternative 161 

CHAPTEE XII. 

Mr. Freeling fails to appear at his place of business — Exami- 
nation of his bank accounts — It is discovered that he has 
borrowed largely of his friends — Mrs. Dinneford has sup- 
plied him $20,000 from her private purse — Mrs. Dinneford ' 
falls sick, and temporarily loses her reason — “ I told you 
her name was Gray — Gray, not Bray” — Half disclosures — 
Eecovery — Mother and daughter mutually suspicious— The 
visitor — Mrs. Dinneford equal to the emergency — Edith 
thrown off the track 172 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

Edith is satisfied that her babe is alive— She has a desire to 
teach the children of the poor— “My baby may become 
like one of these”— She hears of a baby which has been 
stolen— :Eesolve8 to go and see it, and to apply to Mr. 
Paulding of the Briar street mission for assistance in her 
attempt— Mr. Paulding persuades her that it is best not to 
see the child, and promises that he himself will look after it 
— Eeturns home— Her father remonstrates with her, finally 
promises to help her 


16 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEK XIV. 

PAGB 

Mr. Dinneford sets out for the mission -house — An incident 
on the way — Encounters Mr. Paulding — Mr. Paulding 
makes his report — “ The vicious mark their offspring with 
unmistakable signs of moral depravity ; this baby has signs 
of a better origin ” — A profitable conversation — “ I think 
you had better act promptly” .-i 194 

CHAPTER XV. 

Mr. Dinneford with a policeman goes in quest of the baby — - 
The baby is gone — Inquiries — Mr. Dinneford resolves to 
persevere — Cause of the baby’s disappearance — Pinky 
Swett’s curiosity — Change of baby’s nurse — Baby’s im- 
proved condition — Baby’s firlst experience of motherly 
tenderness — Baby’s first smile — “Such beautiful eyes” — 
Pinky Swett visits the St. John mission-school — Edith is 
not there 208 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Mr. Dinneford’s return, and Edith’s disappointment — “ It is 
somebody’s baby, and it may be mine ” — An unsuspected 
listener — Mrs. Dinneford acts promptly — Conference be- 
tween Mrs. Dinneford and Mrs. Hoyt, olios Bray — The 
child must be got out of the way — “ If it will not starve, 
it must drown” — Mrs. Dinneford sees an acquaintance as 
she leaves Mrs. Hoyt’s, and endeavors to escape his obser- 
vation — A new danger and disgrace awaiting her 218 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Mental conditions of mother and daughter — Mr. Dinneford 
aroused to a sense of his moral responsibilities — The hea- 


CONTENTS. 


. 17 

PAGE 

theu in our midst — The united evil of policy-lotteries and 
whisky-shops — The education of the policy-shops 227 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

News item : “ A child drowned ” — Another news item : Pinky 
Swett sentenced to prison for robbery — Baby’s improved 
condition — Mrs. Burke’s efforts to retain the baby after 
Pinky Swett’s imprisonment — Baby Andy’s rough life in 
the street — Mrs. Burke’s death— Cast upon the world — 
Andy’s adventures — He finds a home and a friend 234 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Mr. Dinneford visits the mission-school — A comparison of the 
present with the past — The first mission-school — Reminis- 
cences of the school in its early days — The zealous scholar 
— Good efiects of the mission — “Get the burning brands 
apart, or interpose incombustible things between them ” — 

An illustration — “Let in light, and the darkness flees” 248 

CHAPTER XX. 

“ The man awoke and felt the child against his bosom, soft 
and warm ” — ^ed by a little child — “ God being my helper, 

I will be a man again ” — A new life — Meeting of an old 
friend — A friend in need — Food, clothes, work — A new 
home — God’s strength our only safety 2G4 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Intimate relations of physical and moral purity — Blind Jake 
— The harvest of the thieves and beggars — Inconsiderate 
charity — Beggary a vice — “ The deserving poor are never 
common beggars” — “To help the evil is to hurt the good” 

2* B 


18 * CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

— The malignant ulcer in the body politic of our city — The 
breeding-places of epidemics and malignant diseases — 
Little Italian street musicians — The existence of slavery 
in our midst — Facts in regard to it 280 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Edith’s continued interest in the children of the poor — Christ- 
mas dinner at the mission-house — Edith perceives Andy, 
and feels a strange attraction toward him — Andy’s disap- 
pearance after dinner — Pinky Swett has been seen dragging 
him away — Lost sight of 293 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Christmas dinner at Mr. Dinneford’s — The dropped letter — 

It is missed — A scene of wild excitement — Mrs. Din- 
neford’s sudden death — Edith reads the letter — A revela- 
tion — “ Innocent !” — Edith is called to her mother — “ Dead, 
and better so !” — Granger’s innocence established — An 
agony of affection — Xo longer Granger’s wife 307 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Edith’s sickness — Meeting of Mrs. Bray and Pinky Swett — A 
trial of sharpness, in which neither gains the advantage — 

Mr. Dinneford receives a call from a lady — The lady, who 
is Mrs. Bray, offers information — Mr. Dinneford surprises 
her into admitting an important fact — Mrs. Bray offers to 
produce the child for a price — Mr. Dinneford consents to 
pay the p;*ice on certain stipulations — Mrs. Bray departs, 
promising to come again 314 


CONTENTS. 


19 


CHAPTER XXV. 

PAOE 

Granger’s pardon procured — How he receives his pardon — 
Mrs. Bray tries to trace Pinky home — Loses sight of her in 
the street — Mrs. Bray interviews a shop-woman — Pinky’s 
destination — The child is gone 324 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Mrs. Bray does not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she promised — 
Peril to Andrew Hall through loss of the child — Help — 
Edith longs to see or write to Granger, but does not — 
Edith encounters Mrs. Bray in the street — “ Where is my 
baby?” — Disappointment — How to identify the child if 
found 334 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

4 

No trace of Andy — Account of Andy’s abduction — Andy’s 
prison — An outlook from prison — A loose nail — The escape 
— The sprained ankle — The accident 341 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Edith’s visit to the children’s hospital — “ Oh, my baby ! thank 
God I my baby 1” — The identification 354 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Meeting of Mr. Dinneford and George Granger— “ We want 
you to help us find your child” — “ Edith’s heart is calling 
out for you” — The meeting — The marriage benediction 362 



• J 





I 

!• 









V- ^ 


( » 
# 


i • ► 


'-,.■2 


1 r ‘f 






' ^ 


'i.i 




• r ^ 



i- V •'{■ ™is‘ 


f. . 


. »•. 


fi 



'/iVn:* : 



i*‘ 


.V . 


A I 


4 ^ 


I I 


i^;. 


■ V •;■ 




;> ■ ;% 
1 •' 



1 


>.4 











♦*1 






¥ % 


*»^;^ *r 


r » ^ 


-'S 


^?.v‘' -ri- 

• t • r 

¥- • 




*« t 


!‘ 


VI • 


m 

♦ t 




/• 


* ♦ - 


:/ 


f • 


< 


I 

« 

. • • 


>% 





ir ■ -.v 





' , 
• • 


' ' v! 


4 ^ 


> • 


a;>. r .- fr, 


. ^ 


V 



• r"^ ‘ 

4 . • 


■; ' J 


• « 








3 »'^T:- - : w ■ 


4 r 





# 

■* 

•v \ 

A 

€ 


.^l 

# 

V' » /▼ : 

# 

. » 

• * 4 

' A 


M .' * 

•’?■ ,' A-. 

' • •* 

X; 

A - 

A 4 

f 


*i.v- 


A. 


. I - » 




•’ 4 • 


t * « ' 


• * ‘ • 
4 y */ ^I J 


' v^ 




• • - . .1 >’'l' 'J- •■^AhJ- 

•'♦' r-.^ i& *r -. « "V.W^< :- 

■?; « '■ rr.’ 


■■J‘ 


✓ 

✓ % fc_ ^ 


1 ,^ • V* ^ . 

• -' • !•<,'. • \' . ’Y^..' < 

■ ■• '^'■^., ’’.r: 

•k.ti'ir- '.V- 


' ■■ ■ ■.' - - ■■'■l*^:. *■■*»"*=»*“ 


« « 




4 ti ' ‘ “ -: ■:^-' — aa^ 


S¥ '. *. k 4 ^ 



Cast Adrift. 


CHAPTER I. 

A BABY had come, but he was not welcome. Could 
anything be sadder ? 

The young mother lay with her white face to the wall, 
still as death. A woman opened the chamber door noise- 
lessly and came in, the faint rustle of her garments dis- 
turbing the quiet air. 

A quick, eager turning of the head, a look half anx- 
ious, half fearful, and then the almost breathless question, 
“ Where is my baby 

Never mind about the baby,” was answered, almost 
coldly; <‘he’s well enough. Pm more concerned about 
you.” 

Have you sent word to George ?” 

“ George can’t see you. I’ve said that before.” 

“ Oh, mother ! I must see my husband.” 

“ Husband !” The tone of bitter contempt with which 
the word was uttered struck the daughter like a blow. 
She had partly risen in her excitement, but now fell back 
with a low moan, shutting her eyes and turning her face 

21 


22 


CAST ADBIFT. 


away. Even as she did so, a young man stepped back from 
the door of the elegant house in which she lay with a 
baffled, disappointed air. He looked pale and wretched. 

“ Edith !’^ Two hours afterward the doctor stood over 
the young mother, and called her name. She did not 
move nor reply. He laid his hand on her cheek, and 
almost started, then bent down and looked at her in- 
tently for a moment or two. She had fever. A serious 
expression came into his face, and there was cause. 

The sweet rest and heavenly joy of maternity had been 
denied to his young patient. The new-born babe had not 
been suffered to lie even for one blissful moment on her 
bosom. Hard-hearted family pride and cruel worldliness 
had robbed her of the delight with which God ever seeks 
to dower young motherhood, and now the overtaxed body 
and brain had given way. 

For many weeks the frail young creature struggled 
with delirium — struggled and overcame. 

“ Where is my baby V* 

The first thought of returning consciousness was of her 
baby. 

A woman who sat in a distant part of the chamber 
started up and crossed to the bed. She was past middle 
life, of medium stature, with small, clearly cut features 
and cold blue eyes. Her mouth was full, but very firm. 
Self-poise was visible even in her surprised movements. 
She bent over the bed and looked into Edith’s wistful 
eyes. 

“Where is my baby, mother?” Mrs. Dinneford put 
her fingers lightly on Edith’s lips. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


23 


“ You must be very quiet,” she said, in a low, even voice. 
“The doctor forbids all excitement. You have been 
extremely ill.” 

“ Can’t I see my baby, mother ? It won’t hurt me to 
see my baby.” 

“ Not now. The doctor — ” 

Edith half arose in bed, a look of doubt and fear com- 
ing into her face. 

“ I want my baby, mother,” she said, interrupting her. 

A hard, resolute expression came into the cold blue 
eyes of Mrs. Dinneford. She put her hand firmly against 
Edith and pressed her back upon the pillow. 

“ You have been very ill for nearly two months,” she 
said, softening her voice. “No one thought you could 
live. Thank God ! the crisis is over, but not the danger.” 

“ Two months ! Oh, mother !” ‘ 

The slight flush that had come into Edith’s wan face 
faded out, and the pallor it had hidden for a few moments 
became deeper. She shut her eyes and lay very still, 
but it was plain from the expression of her face that 
thought was busy. 

“Not two whole months, mother?” she said, at length, 
in doubtful tones. “ Oh no ! it cannot be.” 

“It is just as I have said, Edith ; and now, my dear 
child, as you value your life, keep quiet ; all excitement 
is dangerous.” 

But repression was impossible. To Edith’s conscious- 
ness there was no lapse of time. It seemed scarcely an 
hour since the birth of her baby and its removal from 
her sight. The inflowing tide of mother-love, the pres- 


24 


CAST ADRIFT. 


sure and yearning sweetness of which she had begun to 
feel when she first called for the baby they had not per- 
mitted to rest, even for an instant, on her bosom, was now 
flooding her heart. Two months ! If that were so, what 
of the baby ? To be submissive was impossible. 

Starting up half wildly, a vague terror in her face, she 
cried, piteously, 

“ Oh, mother, bring me my baby. I shall die if you 
do not 

“ Your baby is in heaven,” said Mrs. Dinneford, soften- 
ing her voice to a tone of tender regret. 

Edith caught her breath, grew very white, and then, 
with a low, wailing cry that sent a shiver through Mrs. 
Dinneford’s heart, fell back, to all appearance dead. 

The mother did not call for help, but sat by the bed- 
side of her daughter, and waited for the issue of this new 
struggle between life and death. There was no visible 
excitement, but her mouth was closely set and her cold 
blue eyes fixed in a kind of vacant stare. 

Edith was Mrs. Dinneford’s only child, and she had 
loved her with the strong, selfish love of a worldly and 
ambitious woman. In her own marriage she had not 
consulted her heart. Mr. Dinneford’s social position and 
wealth were to her far more than his personal endow- 
ments. She would have rejected him without a quicker 
pulse-beat if these had been all he had to ofier. He 
was disappointed, she was not. Strong, self-asserting, 
yet politic, Mrs. Dinneford managed her good, husband 
about as she pleased in all external matters, and Jeft him 
to the free enjoyment of his personal tastes, preferences 


CAST ADRIFT 


25 


and friendships. The house they lived in, the furniture 
it contained, the style and equipage ^sumed by the 
family, were all of her choice, Mr. Dinneford giving 
merely a half-constrained or half-indifferent consent. He 
had learned, by painful and sometimes humiliating expe- 
rience, that any contest with Mrs. Helen Dinneford upon 
which he might enter was sure to end in his defeat. 

He was a man of fine moral and intellectual qualities. 
His wealth gave him leisure, and his tastes, feelings and 
habits of thought drew him into the society of some of 
the best men in the city where he lived — ^best in the true 
meaning of that word. In all enlightened social reform 
movements you would be sure of finding Mr. Howard 
Dinneford. He was an active and efficient member in 
many boards of public charity, and highly esteemed in 
them all for his enlightened philanthropy and sound 
judgment. Everywhere but at home he was strong and 
influential ; there he was weak, submissive and of little 
account. He had long ago accepted the situation, 
making a virtue of necessity. A different man — one of 
stronger will and a more imperious spirit — would have 
held his own, even though it wrought bitterness and 
sorrow. But Mr. Dinneford’s aversion to strife, and 
gentleness toward every one, held him away from con- 
flict, and so his home was at least tranquil. 

Mrs. Dinneford had her own way, and so long as her 
husband made no strong opposition to that way all was 
peaceful. 

For Edith, their only child, who was more like her 
father than her mother, Mr. Dinneford had the tenderest 


26 


CAST ADRIFT. 


regard. The well-springs of love, choked up so soon after 
his marriage, jv^ere opened freely toward his daughter, 
and he lived in her a new, sweet and satisfying life. The 
mother was often jealous of her husband’s demonstrative 
tenderness for Edith. A yearning instinct of woman- 
hood, long repressed by worldliness and a mean social 
ambition, made her crave at times the love she had cast 
away, and then her cup of life was very bitter. But fear 
of Mr. Dinneford’s influence over Edith was stronger 
than any jealousy of his love. She had high views for 
her daughter. In her own marriage she had set aside all 
consideratioDS but those of social rank. She had made 
it a stepping-stone to a higher place in society than the 
one to which she was born. Still, above them stood many 
millionnaire families, living in palace-homes, and through 
her daughter she meant to rise into one of them. It 
mattered not for the personal quality of the scion of the 
house ; he might be as coarse and common as his father 
before him, or weak, mean, selfish, and debased by sensual 
indulgence. This was of little account. To lift Edith to 
the higher social level was the aU in all of Mrs. Dinne- 
ford’s ambition. 

But Mr. Dinneford taught Edith a nobler life-lesson 
than this, gave her better views of wedlock, pictured for 
her loving heart the bliss of a true marriage, sighing 
often as he did so, but unconsciously, at the lost fruition 
of his own sweet hopes. He was careful to do this only 
when alone with Edith, guarding his speech when Mrs. 
Dinneford was present. He had faith in true principles, 
and with these he sought to guard her life. He knew 


CAST ADBIFT. 


27 


that she would be pushed forward into society, and knew 
but too well that one so pure and lovely in mind as well 
as person would become a centre of attraction, and that 
he, standing on the outside as it were, would have no 
power to save her from th^ saddest of all fates if she 
were passive and her mother resolute. Her safety must 
lie in herself. 

Edith was brought out early. Mrs. Dinneford could 
not wait. At seventeen she was thrust into society, set 
up for sale to the highest bidder, her condition nearer 
that of a Circassian than a Christian maiden, with her 
mother as slave-dealer. 

So it was and so it is. You may see the thing every 
day. But it did not come out according to Mrs. Dinne- 
ford’s programme. There was a highest bidder; but 
when he came for his slave, she was not to be found. 

Well, the story is trite and brief — the old sad story. 
Among her suitors was a young man. named Granger, 
and to him Edith gave her heart. But the mother 
rejected him with anger and scorn. He was not rich, 
though belonging to a family of high character, and so 
fell far below her requirements. Under a pressure that 
almost drove the girl to despair, she gave her consent to 
a marriage that looked more terrible than death. A 
month before the time fixed for its consummation, she 
barred the contract by a secret union with Granger. 

Edith knew her mother’s character too well to hope 
for any reconciliation, so far as Mr. Granger was con- 
cerned. Coming in as he had done between her and the 
consummation of her highest ambition, she could never 


28 


CAST ADRIFT. 


feel toward him anything but the most bitter hatred; 
and so, after remaining at home for about a week after 
her secret marriage, she wrote this brief letter to her 
mother and went away : 

My Dear Mother : I do not love Spencer Wray, 
and would rather die than marry him, and so I have 
made the marriage to which my heart has never con- 
sented, an impossibility. You have left me no other 
alternative but this. I am the wife of George Granger, 
and go to cast my lot with his. 

‘ ‘‘ Your loving daughter, 

“ Edith.” 

To her father she wrote : 

My Dear, Dear Father : If I bring sorrow to your 
good and loving heart by what I have done, I know that 
it will be tempered with joy at my escape from a union 
with one from whom my soul has ever turned with irre- 
pressible dislike. Oh, my father, you can understand, if 
mother cannot, into what a desperate strait I have been 
brought. I am a deer hunted to the edge of a dizzy 
chasm, and I leap for life over the dark abyss, praying 
for strength to reach the farther edge. If I fail in the 
wild effort, I can only meet destruction; and I would 
rather be bruised to death on the jagged rocks than trust 
myself to the hounds and hunters. I write passionately — 
you will hardly recognize your quiet child; but the 
repressed instincts of my nature are strong, and peril and 
despair have broken their bonds. I did not consult you 


CAST ADBIFT. 


29 


about tbe step I have taken, because ! dared not trust 
you with my secret. You would have tried to hold me 
back from the perilous leap, fondly hoping for some 
other way of escape. I had resolved on putting an 
impassable gulf between me and danger, if I died in the 
attempt. I have taken the leap, and may God care for 
me ! 

“ I have laid up in my heart of hearts, dearest of 
fathers, the precious life-truths that so often fell from 
your lips. Not a word that you ever said about the 
sacredness of marriage has been forgotten. I believe with 
you that it is a little less than crime to marry when no 
love exists — that she who does so, sells her heart’s birth* 
right for some mess of pottage, sinks down from the pure 
level of noble womanhood, and traffics away her person, 
is henceforth meaner in quality if not really vile. 

“ And so, my father, to save myself from such a depth 
of degradation and misery, I take my destiny into my 
own hands. I have grown very strong in my convictions 
and purposes in the last four weeks. My sight has 
become suddenly clear. I am older by many years. 

As for George Granger, all I can now say is that I 
love him, and believe him to be worthy of my love. I 
am willing to trust him, and am ready to share his lot, 
however humble. 

« Still hold me in your heart, my precious father, as I 
hold you in mine. Edith.” 

Mr. Einneford read this letter twice. It took him 
some time, his eyes were so full of tears. In view of her 
3 * 


30 


CAST ADRIFT 


approaching marriage with Spencer Wray, his heart had 
felt very heavy. It was something lighter now. Young 
Granger was not the man he would have chosen for 
Edith, but he liked him far better than he did the other, 
and felt that his child was safe now. 

He went to his wife’s room, and found her with Edith’s 
letter crushed in her hand. She was sitting motionless, 
her face pale and rigid, her eyes fixed and stony and her 
lips tight against her teeth. She did not seem to notice 
his pi’esence until he put his hand upon her, which he 
did without speaking. At this she started up and looked 
at him with a kind of fierce intentness. 

‘‘Are you a party to this frightful thing?” she 
demanded. 

Mr. Dinneford weakly handed her the letter he had 
received from Edith. She read it through in half the 
time it had taken his tear-dimmed eyes to make out the 
touching sentences. After she had done so, she stood for 
a few moments as if surprised or baffled. Then she sat 
down, dropping her head, and remained for a long time 
without speaking. 

“ The bitter fruit, Mr. Dinneford,” she said, at last, in 
a voice so strange and hard that it seemed to his ears 
as if another had spoken. All passion had died out 
of it. 

He waited, but she added nothing more. After a long 
silence she waved her hand slightly, and without looking 
at her husband, said, 

“ I would rather be alone.” 

Mr. Dinneford took Edith’s letter from the floor, where 


CAST ABBIFT. 


31 


it had dropped from his wife’s hand, and withdrew from 
her presence. She arose quickly as he did so, crossed 
the room and silently turned the key,. locking herself in. 
Then her manner changed ; she moved about the room 
in a half-aimless, half-conscious way, as though some 
purpose was beginning to take shape in her mind. Her 
motions had an easy, cat-like grace, in contrast with their 
immobility a little while before. Gradually her step 
became quicker, while ripples of feeling began to pass 
over her face, 'which was fast losing its pallor. Gleams 
of light began shooting from her eyes, that were so dull 
and stony when her husband found her with Edith’s 
letter crushed in her grasp. Her hands opened and shut 
upon themselves nervously. This went on, the excite- 
ment of her forming purpose, whatever it was, steadily 
increasing, until she swept about the room like a fury, 
talking to herself and gesticulating as one half insane 
from the impelling force of an evil passion. 

‘‘ Baffled, but not defeated.” The excitement had died 
out. She spoke these words aloud, and with a bitter 
satisfaction in her voice, then sat down, resting her face 
in her hands, and remaining for a long time in deep 
thought. 

When she met her husband, an hour afterward, there 
was a veil over her face, and he tried in vain to look 
beneath it. She was greatly changed ; her countenance 
had a new expression — something he had never seen 
there before. For years she had been growing away 
from him ; now she seemed like one removed to a great 
distance — to have become almost a stranger. He felt 


82 


CAST ADRIFT. 


half afraid of her. She did not speak of Edith, but- 
remained cold, silent and absorbed. 

Mrs. Dinneford gave no sign of what was in her heart 
for many weeks. The feeling of distance and strange- 
ness perceived by her husband went on increasing, until 
a cvague feeling of mystery and fear began to oppress 
him. Several times he had spoken of Edith, but his wife 
^made no response, nor could he read in her veiled face 
the secret purposes she was hiding from him. 

No wonder that Mr. Dinneford was greatly surprised 
and overjoyed, on coming home one day, to meet his 
daughter, to feel her arms about his neck, and to hold 
her tearful face on his bosom. 

“And I’m not going away again, father dear,” she 
said as she kissed him fondly. “ Mother has sent for me, 
and George is to come. Oh, we shall he so happy, so 
happy !” 

And father and daughter cried together, like two happy 
children, in very excess of gladness. They had met 
alone, hut Mrs. Dinneford came in, her presence falling 
on them like a cold shadow. 

“Two great babies,” she said, a covert sneer in her 
chilling voice. 

The joy went slowly out of their faces, though not out 
of their hearts. There it nestled, and warmed the renew- 
ing blood. But a vague, questioning fear began to creep 
in, a sense of insecurity, a dread of hidden danger. The 
daughter did not fully trust her mother, nor the husband 
his wife. 


CHAPTER II. 


T he reception of young Granger was as cordial as 
Mrs. Dinneford chose to make it. She wanted t% 
get near enough to study his character thoroughly, to dis- 
cover its weaknesses and defects, not its better qualities, 
so that she might do for him the evil work that was in 
her heart. She hated him with a bitter hatred, and there 
is npthing so subtle and tireless and unrelenting as the 
hatred of a bad woman. 

She found him weak and unwary. His kindly nature, 
his high sense of honor, his upright purpose, his loving 
devotion to Edith, were nothing in her eyes. She spurned 
them in her thoughts, she trampled them under her feet 
with scorn. But she studied his defects, and soon knew 
every w^ak point in his character. She drew him out to 
speak of himself, of his aims and j)rospects, of his friends 
and associates, until she understood him altogether. 
Then she laid her plans for his destruction. 

Granger was holding a clerkship at the time of his 
marriage, but was anxious to get a start for himself. He 
had some acquaintance with a man named Lloyd Freeling, 
and often spoke of him in connection with business. 
Freeling had a store on one of' the best streets, and, as 
represented by himself, a fine run of trade, but wanted 
more capital. One day he said to Granger, 


34 


CAST ABFilFT. 


“If I could find the right man with ten thousand 
dollars, I would take him in. We could double this 
business in a year.” 

Granger repeated the remark at home. Mrs. Dinne- 
ford listened, laid it up in her thought, and on the next 
day called at the store of Mr. Freeling to see what 
manner of man he was. 

Her first impression was favorable — she liked him. On 
a second visit she liked him better. She was not aware 
that Freeling knew her ; in this he had something of the 
advantage. A third time she dropped in, asking to see 
certain goods and buying a small bill, as before. This 
time she drew Mr. Freeling into conversation about busi- 
ness, and put some questions the meaning of which he 
understood quite as well as she did. 

A woman like Mrs. Dinneford can read character 
almost as easily as she can read a printed page, particu- 
larly a weak or bad character. She knew perfectly, 
before the close of this brief interview, that Freeling was 
a man without principle, false and unscrupulous, and 
that if Granger were associated with him in business, he 
could, if he chose, not only involve him in transactions 
of a dishonest nature, but ' throw upon him the odium 
and the consequences. 

“ Do you think,” she said to Granger, not long after- 
ward, “ that your friend, Mr. Freeling, would like to have 
you for a partner in business ?” 

The question surprised and excited him. 

“ I know it,” he returned ; “ he has said so more than 
once.” 


OAST ADBIFT. 


35 


How much capital would he require T 

“ Ten thousand dollars.’’ 

“ A large sum to risk.” 

Yes ; but I do not think there will be any risk. The 
business is well established.” 

“ What do you know about Mr. Freeling ?” 

. “ Not a great deal ; but if I am any judge of character, 

he is fair and honorable.” 

Mrs. Dinneford turned her head that* Granger might 
not see the expression of her face. 

You had better talk with Mr. Dinneford,” she said. 

But Mr. Dinneford did not favor it. He had seen too 
many young men go into business and fail. 

So the matter was dropped for, a little while. But 
Mrs. Dinneford had .set her heart on the young man’s 
destruction, and no better way of accomplishing the work 
presented itself than this. He must be involved in some 
way to hurt his good name, to blast his reputation and 
drive him to ruin. Weak, trusting and pliable, a specious 
villain in whom he had confidence might easily get him 
involved in transactions that were criminal under the 
law. She would be willing to sacrifice twice ten thousand 
dollars to accomplish this result. 

Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith favored the business 
connection with Freeling, and said all they could against 
it. In weak natures we often find great pertinacity. 
Granger had this quality. He had set his mind on the 
copartnership, and saw in it a high road to fortune, and 
no argument of Mr. Dinneford, nor opposition of Edith, 
had power to change his views, or to hold him back from 


36 


CAST ADRIFT. 


the arrangement favored by Mrs. Dinneford, and made 
possible by the capital she almost compelled her husband 
to supply. 

In due time the change from clerk to merchant was 
made, and the new connection announced, under the title 
of “ Fkeeling & Granger.” 

Clear-seeing as evil may be in its schemes for hurting 
others, it is always blind to the consequent exactions upon 
itself ; it strikes^ fiercely and desperately, not calculating 
the force of a rebound. So eager was Mrs. Dinneford to 
compass the ruin of Granger that she stepjDed beyond 
the limit of common prudence, and sought private inter- 
views with Freeling, both before and after the completion 
of the partnership arrangement. These took place in the 
parlor of a fashionable hotel, where the gentleman and 
lady seemed to meet accidentally, and without attracting 
attention. 

Mrs. Dinneford was very confidential in these inter- 
views, not concealing her aversion to Granger. He had 
come into the family, she said, as an unwelcome intruder ; 
but now that he was there, they had to make the best of 
him. Not in spoken words did Mrs. Dinneford convey 
to Freeling the bitter hatred that was in her heart, nor 
in spoken words let him know that she desired the young 
man’s utter ruin, but he understood it all before the close 
of their first private interview. Freeling was exceedingly 
deferential in the beginning and guarded in his speech. 
He knew by the quick intuitions of his nature that Mrs. 
Dinneford cherished an evil purpose, and had chosen him 
as the agent for its accomplishment. She was rich, and 


CAST ADBIFT 


37 


^ occupied a high social position, and his ready conclusion 
was that, be the service what it might, he could make it 
pay. To get such a woman in his power was worth an 
effort. 

One morning — it was a few months after the date of 
the copartnership — Mrs. Dinneford received a note from 
Freeling. It said, briefly, 

“ At the usual place, 12 m. to-day. Important.” There 
was no signature. 

The sharp knitting of her brows and the nervous 
crumpling of the note in her hand showed that she was 
not pleased at the summons. She had come already to 
know her partner in evil too well. At 12 M. she was in 
the hotel parlor. Freeling was already there. They 
met in external cordiality, but it was very evident from 
the manner of Mrs. Dinneford, that she felt herself in 
the man’s power, and had learned to be afraid of J^im. 

« It will be impossible to get through to-morrow,” he 
said, in a kind of imperative voice, that was half a threat, 
“ unless we have two thousand dollars.” 

« I cannot ask Mr. Dinneford for anything more,” Mrs. 
Dinneford replied ; “ we have already furnished ten thou- 
sand dollars beyond the original investment.” 

« But it is all safe enough — that is, if we do not break 
down just here for lack of so small a sum.” 

Mrs. Dinneford gave a start. 

« Break down !” She repeated the words in a husky 
voice, with a paling face. « What do you mean ?” 

« Only that in consequence of having in store a large 
stock of unsalable goods bought by your indiscreet son- 


38 


CAST ADRIFT. 


in-law, who knows no more about business than a child, 
we are in a temporary strait.” 

“Why did you trust him to buy?” asked Mrs. 
Dinneford. 

“I didn’t trust him. He bought without consulting 
me,” was replied, almost rudely. 

“ Will two thousand be the end of this thing ?” 

“ I think so.” 

“You only think so?” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“ Very well ; I will see what can be done. But all this 
must have an end, Mr. Freeling. We cannot supi)ly any 
more money. You must look elsewhere if you have further 
need. Mr. Dinneford is getting very much annoyed and 
worried. You surely have other resources.” 

“ I have drawn to the utmost on all my resources,” said 
the man, coldly. 

Mrs. Dinneford remained silent for a good while, her 
eyes upon the floor. Freeling watched her face intently, 
trying to read what was in her thoughts. At last she 
said, in. a suggestive tone, 

“There are many ways of getting money known to 
business-men — a little risky some of them, perhaps, but 
desperate cases require desperate expedients. You under- 
stand me ?” 

Freeling took a little time to consider before replying. 

“Yes,” he said, at length, speaking slowly, as one 
careful of his words. “ But all expedients are ‘ risky,’ as 
you say — some of them very risky. It takes a long, cool 
head to manage them safely.” * 


CAST ADRIFT. 


39 


“ I don’t know a longer or cooler head than yours,” re- 
turned Mrs. Dinneford, a faint smile playing, about her 
lips. 

‘‘Thank you for the compliment,” said Freeling, his 
lips reflecting the smile on hers. 

“You must think of some expedient.” Mrs. Dinne- 
ford’s manner grew impressive. She spoke with empha- 
sis and deliberation. “ Beyond the sum of two thousand 
dollars, which I will get for you by to-morrow, I sh;^ll not 
advance a single penny. You may set that down as sure. 
If you are not sharp enough and strong enough, with the 
advantage you possess, to hold your own, then you must 
go under ; as for me, I have done all that I can or will.”’ 

Freeling saw ' that she was wholly in earnest, and 
understood what she meant by “desperate expedients.” 
Granger was to be ruined, and she was growing impatient 
of delay. He had no desire to hurt the young man — he 
rather liked him. Up to this time he had been content 
with what he could draw out of Mrs. Dinneford. There 
was no risk in this sort of business. Moreover, he 
enjoyed his interviews and confidences with the elegant 
lady, and of late the power he seemed to be gaining over 
her ; this power he regarded as capital laid up for another 
use, and at another time. 

But it was plain that he had reached the end of his 
present financial policy, and must decide whether to 
adopt the new one suggested by Mrs. Dinneford or make 
a failure, and so get rid of his partner. The question he 
had to settle with himself was whether he could make 
more by a failure than by using Granger a while longer, 



40 


CAST ADBIFT. 


and then throwing him overboard, disgraced and ruined. 
Selfish and unscrupulous as he was, Freeling hesitated to 
do this. And besides, the “desperate expedients” he 
would have to adopt in the, new line of policy were 
fraught with peril to all who took part in them. He 
might fall into the snare set for another — might involve 
himself so deeply as not to find a way of escape. 

“To-morrow we will talk this matter over,” he said in 
reply to Mrs. Dinneford’s last remark ; “ in the mean time 
I will examine the ground thoroughly and see how it 
looks.” 

“ Don’t hesitate to make any use you can of Granger,” 
suggested the lady. “ He has done his part toward getting 
things tangled, and must help to untangle them.” 

“ All right, ma’am.” 

And they separated, Mrs. Dinneford reaching the street 
by one door of the hotel, and Freeling by another. 

On the following day they met again, Mrs. Dinneford 
bringing the two thousand dollars. 

“ And now what next ?” she asked, after handing over 
the money and taking the receipt of “Freeling & 
Granger.” Her eyes had a hard glitter, and her face 
was almost stern in its expression. “ How are you going 
to raise money and keep afloat ?” 

“Only some desperate expedient is left me now,” 
answered Freeling, though not in the tone of a man who 
felt himself at bay. It was said with a wicked kind of 
levity. * 

Mrs. Dinneford looked at him keenly. She was 
beginning to mistrust the man. They gazed into each 


CAST ADRIFT. 


41 


other’s faces in silence for some moments, each trying to 
read what was in the other’s thought. At length Free- 
ling said, 

“There is one thing more that you will have to do, 
Mrs. Dinneford.” 

“ What ?” she asked. 

“ Get your husband to draw two or three notes in Mr. 
Granger’s favor. They should not be for less than five 
hundred or a thousand dollars each. The dates must be 
short — not over thirty or sixty days.” 

“ It can’t be done,” was the, emphatic answer. 

“ It must be done,” replied Freeling ; “ they need not 
be for the business. You can manage the matter if you 
will; your daughter wants an India shawl, nr a set of 
diamonds, or a new carriage — anything you choose. Mr. 
Dinneford hasn’t the ready cash, but we can throw his 
notes into bank and get the money ; don’t you see ?” 

But Mrs. Dinneford didn’t see. 

“ I don’t mean,” said Freeling, “that we are to use the 
money. Let the shawl, or the diamond, or the what-not, 
be bought and paid for. We get the discounts for your 
use, not ours.” 

“ All very well,” answered Mrs. Dinneford ; “ but how 
is that going to help you ?” 

“Leave that to me. You get the notes,” said Free- 
ling. 

“I never walk blindfold, Mr. Freeling,” replied the 
lady, drawing herself up, with a dignified air. “We 
ought to understand each other by this time. I must see 
beyond the mere use of these notes.” 


42 


CAST ADBIFT 


Freeling shut his mouth tightly and knit his heavy 
brows. Mrs. Dinneford watched him closely. 

It’s a desperate expedient,” he said, at length. 

“All well as far as that is concerned; but if I am to 
have a hand in it, I must know all about it,” she replied, 
firmly. “ As I said just now, I never walk blindfold.” 

Freeling leaned close to Mrs. Dinneford, and uttered a 
few sentences in a low tone, speaking rapidly. The color 
went and came in her face, but she sat motionless, and so 
continued for some time after he had ceased speaking. 

“ You will get the notes ?” Freeling put the question 
as one who has little doubt of the answer. 

“ I will get them,” replied Mrs. Dinneford. 

“When?” 

“ It wdll take time.” 

“ We cannot wait long. If the thing is done at all, it 
must be done quickly. < Strike while the iron is hot’ is 
the best of all maxims.” 

“ There shall be no needless delay on my part. You 
may trust me for that,” was answered. 

Within a week Mrs. Dinneford brought two notes, 
drawn by her husband in favor of George Granger — one 
for five hundred and the other for one thousand dollars. 
The time was short — thirty and sixty days. On this oc- 
casion she came to the store and asked for her son-in- 
law. The meeting between her and Freeling was reserved 
and formal. She expressed regret for the trouble she was 
giving the firm in procuring a discount for her use, and 
said that if, she could reciprocate the favor in anyway 
she would be happy to do so. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


43 


The notes are drawn to your order,” remarked Free- ’ 
ling as soon as the lady had retired. Granger endorsed 
them, and was about handing them to his partner, when 
the latter said : 

“ Put our name on them while you are about it.” And 
the young man wrote also the endorsement of the firm. 

After this, Mr. Freeling put the bank business into 
Granger’s hands. Nearly all checks were drawn and all 
business paper endorsed by the younger partner, who be- 
came the financier of the concern, and had the manage- 
ment of all negotiations for money in and out of bank. 

One morning, shortly after the first of Mr. Dinneford’s 
notes was paid. Granger saw his mother-in-law come into 
the store. Freeling was at the counter. They talked to- 
gether for some time, and then Mrs. Dinneford went out. 

On the next day Granger saw Mrs. Dinneford in the 
store again. After she had gone aAvay, Freeling came 
back, and laying a note-ot-hand bn his partner’s desk, 
said, in a pleased, confidential way, 

“ Look at that, my friend.” 

Granger read the face of the not^ with a start of sur- 
prise. It was drawn to his order, for thfee thousand dol- 
lars, and bore the signature of Howard Dinneford. 

“A thing that is worth having is worth asking for,” 
said Freeling. “We obliged your mother-in-law, and 
now she has returned the favor. It didn’t come very 
easily, she said, and your father-in-law isn’t feeling rather 
comfortable about it; so she doesn’t care about your 
speaking of it at home.” 

Granger was confounded. 


44 


CAST ADBIFT. 


« I can’t understand it,” he said. 

“You can understand that we have the note, and that 
it has come in the nick of time,” returned Freeling. 

“Yes, I can see all that.” 

“ Well, don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth, hut spring 
into the saddle and take a ride. Your mother-in-law is a 
trump. If she will, she will, you may depend on’t.” 

Freeling was unusually excited. Granger looked the 
note over and over in a way that seemed to annoy his 
partner, who said, presently, with a shade of ill-nature in 
his voice, 

“ What’s the matter ? Isn’t the signature all right ?” 

“ That’s right enough,” returned the young man, after 
looking at it closely. “ But I can’t understand it.” 

“You will when you see the proceeds passed to our 
account in bank — ^ha ! ha !” 

Granger looked up at his partner quickly, the laugh 
had so strange a sound, hut saw nothing new in his face. 

In about a month Freeling had in his possession an- 
other note, signed by Mr. Dinneford and drawn to the 
order of George Granger. This one was for five thousand 
dollars. He handed it to his partner soon after the latter 
had observed Mrs. Dinneford in the store. 

A little over six weeks from this time, Mrs. Dinne- 
ford was in the store again. After she had gone away, 
Freeling handed Granger three more notes drawn by Mr. 
Dinneford to his order, amounting in all to fifteen thou- 
sand dollars. They were at short dates. 

Granger took these notes without any remark, and was 
about putting them in his desk, when Freeling said. 


CAST ADBIFT. 


45 


“ I think you had better offer one in the People’s Bank 
and another in the Fourth National. They discount to- 
morrow.” 

“Our line is full in both of these banks,” replied 
Granger. 

“ That may or may not be. Paper like this is not often 
thrown out. Call on the president of the Fourth Na- 
tional and the cashier of the People’s Bank. Say that 
we particularly want the money, and would like them to 
see that the notes go through. Star & Giltedge can easily 
place the other.” 

Granger’s manner did not altogether please his part- 
ner. The notes lay before him on his desk, and he looked 
at them in a kind of dazed way. 

“ What’s the matter ?” asked Freeling, rather sharply. 

“ Nothing,” was the quiet answer. 

“You saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store just now. I 
told her last Aveek that I should claim another favor at 
her hands. She tried to beg off, but I pushed the matter 
hard. It must end here, she says. Mr. Dinneford won’t 
go any farther.” 

“ I should think not,” replied Granger. “ I wouldn’t if 
I Avere he. The wonder to me is that he has gone so far. 
What about the renewal of these notes ?” 

“ Oh, that is all arranged,” returned Freeling, a little 
hurriedly. Granger looked at him for some moments. 
He was not satisfied. 

“ See that they go in bank,” said Freeling, in a positive 
way. 

Granger took up his pen in an abstracted manner and 


46 


CAST ADRIFT. 


endorsed the notes,, after which he laid them in his bank- 
book. An important customer coming in at the moment, 
Freeling went forward to see him. After Granger was 
left alone, he took the notes from his bank-book and ex- 
amined them with great care. Suspicion was aroused. 
He felt sure that something was wrong. A good many 
things in Freeling’s conduct of late had seenied strange. 
After thinking for a while, he determined to take the 
notes at once to Mr. Dinneford and ask him if all was 
right. As soon as his mind had reached this conclusion 
he hurried through the work he had on hand, and then 
putting his bank-book in his pocket, left the store. 

On that very morning Mr. Dinneford received notice 
that he had a note for three thousand dollars falling due 
at one of the banks. He went immediately and asked to 
see the note. When it was shown to him, he was observed 
to become very pale, but he left the desk of the note- 
clerk without any remark, and returned home. He met 
his wife at the door, just coming in. 

“ What’s the matter ?” she asked, seeing how pale he 
was. Not sick, I hope ?” 

“Worse than sick,” he replied as they passed into the 
house together. “ George has been forging my name.” 

“ Impossible !” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford. 

“I wish it were,” replied Mr. Dinneford, sadly; “but, 
alas! it is too true. I have just returned from the Fourth 
National Bank. They have a note for three thousand 
dollars, bearing my signature. It is drawn to the order 
of George Granger, and endorsed by him. The note is a 
forgery.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


47 


Mrs. Dinneford became almost wild with excitement. 
Her fair face grew purple. Her eyes shone with a fierce 
light. 

“ Have you had him arrested ?” she asked. 

Oh no, no, no !” Mr. Dinneford answered. “ For 
poor Edith’s sake, if for nothing else, this dreadful busi- 
ness must be kept secret. I will take up the note when 
due, and the public need be none the wiser.” 

“ If,” said Mrs. Dinneford, “ he has forged your name 
once, he has, in all probability, done it again and again. 
No, no ; the thing can’t be hushed up, and it must not 
be. Is he less a thief and a robber because he is our 
son-in-law ? My daughter the wife of a forger ! Great 
heavens ! has it come to this, Mr. Dinneford ?” she added, 
after a pause, and with intense bitterness and rejection in 
her voice. “ The die is cast ! Never again, if I can pre- 
vent it, shall that scoundrel cross our threshold. " Let the 
law have its course. It is a crime to conceal crime.” 

“ It will kill our poor child !” answered Mr. Dinneford 
in a broken voice. 

“ Death is better than the degradation of living with a 
criminal,” replied his wife. “ I say it solemnly, and I 
mean it; the die is cast! Come what will, George 
Granger stands now and for ever on the outside I Go at 
once and give information to the bank ofiicers. If you 
do not, I will.” 

With a heavy heart Mr. Dinneford returned to the 
bank and informed the president that the note in question 
was a forgery. He had been gone from home a little 
over half an hour, when Granger, who had come to 


48 


CAST ABBIFT. 


ask him about the three notes given him that morning 
by Freeling, put his key in the door, and found, a little 
to his surprise, that the latch was down. He rang the 
bell, and in a few moments the servant appeared. 
Granger was about passing in, when the man said, respect- 
fully but firmly, as he held the door partly closed, 

“ My orders are not to let you come in.” 

“Who gave you those orders?” demanded Granger, 
turning white. 

“ Mrs. Dinneford.” 

“ I wish to see Mr. Dinneford,. and I must see him 
imruediately.” 

“ Mr. Dinneford is not at home,” answered the servant. 

“ Shut that door instantly !” 

It was the voice of Mrs. Dinneford, speaking from 
within. Granger heard it ; in the next moment the door 
was shut in his face. 

The young man hardly knew how he got back to the 
store. On his arrival he found himself under arrest, 
charged with forgery, and with fresh evidence of the 
crime on his person in the three notes received that morn- 
ing from his partner, who denied all knowledge of their 
existence, and appeared as a witness against him at the 
hearing before a magistrate. Granger was held to bail to 
answer the charge at the next term of court. 

It would have been impossible to keep all this from 
Edith, even if there had been a purpose to do so. Mrs. 
Dinneford chose to break the dreadful news at her own 
time and in her own way. The shock was fearful. On 
the night that followed her baby was born. 


CHAPTER III. 


TT is a splendid boy,” said the nurse as she came in 

J- with the new-born baby in her arms, “ and perfect as 
a bit of sculpture. Just look at that hand.” 

Faugh!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, to whom this 
was addressed. Her countenance expressed disgust. She 
turned her head away. Hide the thing from my sight I” 
she added, angrily. << Cover it up! smother it if you 
will !” 

You are still determined ?” said the nurse. 

“ Determined, Mrs. Bray ; I am not the woman to look 
back when I have once resolved. You know me.” Mrs. 
Dinneford said this passionately. 

The two women were silent for a little while.- Mrs. 
Bray, the nurse, kept her face partly turned from Mrs. 
Dinneford. She was a short, dry, wiry little woman, 
with French features, a sallow complexion and very black 
eyes. 

The doctor looked in. Mrs. Dinneford went quickly to 
the door, and putting her hand on his arm, pressed him 
back, going out into the entry with him and closing the 
door behind them. They talked for a short time very 
earnestly; 

“The whole thing is wrong,” said the doctor as he 
*5 D 49 


60 


CAST ADRIFT. 


turned to go, “and I will not be answerable for tbe 
consequences.” 

“No one will require tbem at your band, Doctor Rad- 
cliiFe,” replied Mrs. Dinneford. “ Do tbe best you can 
for Editb. As for tbe rest, know nothing, say nothing. 
You understand.” 

Doctor Burt Radcliffe bad a large practice among rich 
and fashionable people. He bad learned to be very con- 
siderate of their weaknesses, peculiarities and moral ob- 
liquities. -His business was to doctor tbem when sick, to 
humor tbem when they only thought themselves sick, and 
to get the largest possible fees for his services. A great 
deal came under his observation that he did not care to 
see, and of which he saw as little as possible. From 
policy he had learned to be reticent. He held family 
secrets enough to make, in the hands of a skillful writer, 
more than a dozen romances of the saddest and most ex- 
citing character. 

Mrs. Dinneford knew him thoroughly, and just how far 
to trust him. “ Know nothing, say nothing ” was a good 
maxim in the case, and so she divulged only the fact that 
the baby was to be cast adrift. His weak remonstrance 
might as well not have been spoken, and he knew it. 

While this brief interview was in progress. Nurse Bray 
sat with the baby on her lap. She had taken the soft 
little hands into her own ; and evil and cruel though she 
was, an impulse of tenderness flowed into her heart from 
the angels who were present with the innocent child. It 
grew lovely in her eyes. Its helplessness stirred in her a 
latent instinct of protection. “ No, no, it must not be,” she 


CAST ADRIFT. 


51 


was saying to herself, when the door opened and Mrs. 
Dinneford came back. 

Mrs. Bray did not lift her head, but sat looking down 
at the baby and toying with its hands. 

“ Pshaw !” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, in angry disgust, 
as she noticed this manifestation of interest. “Bundle 
the thing up and throw it into that basket. Is the woman 
down stairs 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Bray as she slowly drew a light 
blanket over the baby. 

“ Very well. Put it in the basket, and let her take it 
away.” 

“ She is not a good woman,” said the nurse, whose heart 
was failing her at the last moment. 

“ She may be the devil for all I care,” returned Mrs. 
Dinneford. 

Mrs. Bray did as she was ordered, but with an evident 
reluctance that irritated Mrs. Dinneford. 

“ Go now and bring up the woman,” she said, sharply. 

The woman was brought. She was past the prime of 
life, and had an evil face. You read in it the record of 
bad passions indulged and the signs of a cruel nature. 
She was poorly clad, and her garments unclean. 

“ You will take this child ?” said Mrs. Dinneford, ab- 
ruptly, as the woman came into her presence. 

“ I have agreed to do so,” she replied, looking toward 
Mrs. Bray. 

“ She is to have fifty dollars,” said the nurse. 

“ And that is to be the last of it !” Mrs. Dinneford’s 
face was pale, and she spoke in a hard, husky voice. 


52 


CAST ADRIFT, 


Opening her purse, she took from it a small roll of bills, 
and as she held out the money said, slowly and with a 
hard emphasis, 

“ You understand the terms. I do not know you — not 
even your name. I don’t wish to know you. For this 
consideration you take the child away. That is the end 
of it between you and me. The child is your own as 
much as if he were born to you, and you can do with 
him as you please. And now go.” Mrs. Dinneford 
waved her hand. 

“ His name ?” queried the woman. 

“ He has no name !” Mrs. Dinneford stamped her foot 
in angry impatience. 

The woman stooped down, and taking up the basket, 
tucked the covering that had been laid over the baby 
close about its head, so that no one could see what she 
carried, and went olf without uttering another word. 

It was some moments before either Mrs. Dinneford or 
the nurse spoke. Mrs. Bray was first to break silence. 

“All this means a great deal more than you have 
counted on,” she said, in a voice that betrayed some little 
feeling. “ To throw a tender baby out like that is a hard 
thing. I am afraid — ” 

“ There, there ! no more of that,” returned Mrs. Din- 
neford, impatiently. “ It’s ugly w^ork, I own, but it had 
to be done — ^like cutting off a diseased limb. He will 
die, of course, and the sooner it is over, the better for him 
and every one else.” 

“ He will have a hard struggle for life, poor little thing !” 
said the nurse. “ I would rather see him dead.” 


CAST AJDBIFT. 


53 


Mrs. Dinneford, now that this wicked and cruel deed 
was done, felt ill at ease. She pushed the subject away, 
and tried to bury it out of sight as we bury the dead, but 
did not find the task an easy one. 

What followed the birth and removal of Edith’s baby, 
up to the time of her return to reason after a long strug- 
gle for life, has already been told. Her demand to have 
her baby — “ Oh, mother, bring me my baby ! I shall die 
if you do not !” and the answer, “ Your baby is in heaven !” 
— sent the feeble life-currents back again upon her heart. 
There was another long period of oblivion, out of which 
she came very slowly, her mind almost as much a blank 
as the mind of a child. 

Shn had to learn again the names of things, and to be 
taught their use. It was touching to see the untiring 
devotion of her father, and the pleasure he took in 
every new evidence of mental growth. He went over 
the alphabet with her, letter by letter, many times each 
day, encouraging her and holding her thought down to 
the unintelligible signs with a patient tenderness sad yet 
beautiful to see ; and when she began to combine letters 
into words, and at last to put words together, his delight 
was unbounded. 

Very slowly went on the new process of mental growth, 
and it was months before thought began to reach out be- 
yond the little world that lay just around her. 

Meanwhile, Edith’s husband had been brought to trial 
for forgery, convicted and sentenced to the State’s prison 
for a term of years. His partner came forward as the 
chief witness, swearing that he had believed the notes 


54 


CAST ADRIFT. 


genuine, the firm having several times had the use of 
Mr. Dinneford’s paper, drawn to the order of Granger. 

Ere the day of trial came the poor young man was 
nearly broken-hearted. Public disgrace like this, added 
to the terrible private wrongs he was suffering, was more 
than he had the moral strength to bear. Utterly repudi- 
ated by his wife’s family, and not even permitted to see 
Edith, he only knew that she was very ill. Of the birth of 
his baby he had but a vague intimation. A rumor was 
abroad that it had died, but he could learn nothing cer- 
tain. In his distress and uncertainty he called on Dr. 
Radcliflfe, who replied to his questions with a cold evasion. 

It was put out to nurse,” said the doctor, “ and that is 
all I know about it.” Beyond this he would say nothing. 

Granger was not taken to the State’s prison after his 
sentence, but to an insane asylum. Reason gave way 
under the terrible ordeal through which he had been 
made to pass. 

“ Mother,” said Edith, one day, in a tone that caused 
Mrs. Dinneford’s heart to leap. She was reading a child’s 
simple story-book, and looked up as she spoke. Her eyes 
were wide open and full of questions. 

“ What, my dear ?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, repressing 
her feelings and trying to keep her voice calm. 

“ There’s something I can’t understand, mother.” She 
looked down at herself, then about the room. Her man- 
ner was becoming nervous. 

“ What can’t you understand ?” 

Edith shut her hands over her eyes and remained very 
still. When she removed them, and her mother looked 


CAST ADRIFT. 


55 


into her face, the childlike sweetness and content were 
all gone, and a conscious woman was before her. The 
transformation was as sudden as it was marvelous. 

Both remained silent for the space of nearly a minute. 
Mrs. Djnneford knew not what to say, and waited for 
some sign from her daughter. 

“ Where is my baby, mother T’ Edith said this in a 
low, tremulous whisper, leaning forward as she spoke, re- 
pressed and eager, 

‘‘Have you forgotten?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, with 
regained composure. 

Forgotten what ?” 

« You were v-ery ill after your baby was born ; no one 
thought you could live; you were ill for a long time. 
And the baby — ” 

“ What of the baby, mother?” asked Edith, beginning 
to tremble violently. Her mother, perceiving her agita- 
tion, held back the word that was on her lips. 

“What of the baby, mother?” Edith repeated the 
question. 

“ It died,” said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. 
She could not look at her child and utter this cruel false- 
hood. 

“ Dead ! Oh, mother, don’t say that ! The baby can’t 
be dead !” 

A swift flash of suspicion came ipto her eyes. 

“ I have said it, my child,” was the almost stern re- 
sponse of Mrs. Dinneford, “ The baby is dead,” 

A weight seemed to fall on Edith. She bent forward, 
crouching down until her elbows rested on her knees and 


56 


CAST ADRIFT. 


her hands supported her head. Thus she sat, rocking her 
body with a slight motion. Mrs. Dinneford watched her 
without speaking. 

“And what of George?” asked Edith, checking her 
nervous movement at last. 

Her mother did not reply. Edith waited a moment, 
and then lifted herself erect. 

“ What of George ?” she demanded. 

“ My poor child !” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with a 
gush of genuine pity, putting her arms about Edith and 
drawing her head against her bosom. “ It is more than 
you have strength to bear.” 

“ You must tell me,” the daughter said, disengaging 
herself. “ I have asked for my husband.” 

“ Hush ! You must not utter that word again ;” and 
Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers on Edith’s lips. “ The 
wretched man you once called by that name is a dis- 
graced criminal. ^ It is better that you know the worst.” 

When Mr. Dinneford came home, instead of the quiet, 
happy child he had left in the morning, he found a sad, 
alnaost broken-hearted woman, refusing to be comforted. 
The wonder was that under the shock of this terrible 
awakening, reason had not been again and hopelessly 
dethroned. 

After a period of intense suffering, pain seemed to 
deaden sensibility. She grew calm and passive. And 
now Mrs. Dinneford set herself to the completion of the 
work she had begun. She had compassed the ruin of 
Granger in order to make a divorce possible; she had 
cast the baby adrift that no sign of the social disgrace 


CAST ADRIFT. 


57 


might remain as an impediment to her first ambition. 
She would yet see her daughter in the position to which 
she had from the beginning resolved to lift her, cost what 
it might. But the task was not to be an easy one. 

After a period of intense sufiering, as we have said, 
Edith grew calm and passive. But she was never at ease 
with her mother, and seemed to be afraid of her. To her , 
father she was tender and confiding. Mrs. Dinneford 
soon saw that if Edith’s consent to a divorce from her 
husband was to be obtained, it must come through her 
father’s influence ; for if she but hinted at the subject, it 
was met with a flash of almost indignant rejection. So 
her first work was to bring her husband over to her side. 
This was not difficult, for Mr. Dinneford felt the disgrace 
of having for a son-in-law a condemned criminal, who 
was only saved from the State’s prison by insanity. An 
insane criminal was not worthy to hold the relation of 
husband to his pure and lovely child. 

After a feeble opposition to her father’s arguments and 
persuasions, Edith yielded her consent. An application 
for a divorce was made, and speedily granted. 


CHAPTER IV. 


O UT of this fiirnace Edith came with a new and purer 
spirit. She had been thrust in a shrinking and 
frightened girl ; she dame out a woman in mental stature, 
in feeling and self-consciousness. 

The river of her life, which had cut for itself a deeper 
channel, lay now so far down that it was out of the sight oP 
common observation. Even her mother failed to appre- 
hend its drift and strength. Her father knew her better. 
To her mother she was reserved and distant; to her 
father, warm and confiding. With the former she would 
sit for hours without speaking unless addressed ; with the 
latter she was pleased and social, and grew to be 
interested in what interested him. As mentioned, Mr. 
Dinneford was a man of wealth and leisure, and active 
in many public charities. He had come to be much con- 
cerned for the n^lected and cast-off children of poor 
and vicious parents, thousands upon thousands of whom 
were going to hopeless ruin, unthought of and un'cared for 
by Church or State, and their condition often formed the 
subject of his conversation as well at home as elsewhere. 

Mrs. Dinneford had no sympathy with her husband in 
this direction. A dirty, vicious child was an ofience to 
her, not an object of pity, and she felt more like spurn- 
ing it with her foot than touching it with her hand. 
But it was not so with Edith ; she listened to her father, 
68 




THE MOTHER'S INSTINCT 


See jiiige 59 












CAST ADRIFT. 


69 


and became deeply interested in the poor, suffering, 
neglected little ones whose sad condition he could so 
vividly portray, for the public duties of charity to which 
he was giving a large part of his time made him familiar 
with much that was sad and terrible in human suffering 
and degradation. 

One day Edith said to her father, 

“I saw a sight this morning that made me sick. It 
has haunted me ever since. Oh, it was dreadful !” 

What was it ?” asked Mr. Dinneford. 

“ A sick baby in the arms of a half-drunken woman. 
It made me shiver to look at its poor little face, wasted 
by hunger and sickness and purple with cold. The 
woman sat at the street corner begging, and the people 
went by, no one seeming to care for the helpless, starving 
baby in her arms. I saw a police-officer almost touch 
the woman as he passed. Why did he not arrest her ?” 

That was not his business,” replied Mr. Dinneford. 
“ So long as she did not disturb the peace, the officer had 
nothing to do with her.” 

“ Who, then, has ?” 

“ Nobody.” 

“ Why, father !” exclaimed Edith. Nobody ?” 

“The woman was engaged in business. She was a 
beggar, and the sick, half-starved baby was her capital 
in trade,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “ That policeman had 
no more authority to arrest her than he had to arrest the 
organ-man or the peanut-vender.” 

“ But somebody should see after a poor baby like that. 
Is there no law to meet such cases ?” 


60 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ The poor baby has no vote/’ replied Mr. Dinneford, 
and law-makers don’t concern themselves much about 
that sort of constituency ; and even if they did, the execu- 
tors of law would be found indifferent. They are much 
more careful to protect those whose business it is to make 
drunken beggars like the one you saw, who, if men, can 
vote and give them place and power. The poor baby is 
far beneath their consideration.” 

‘‘ But not of Him,” said Edith, with eyes full of tears, 
who took little children in his arms and blessed them, 
and sa:id. Suffer them to come unto me and forbid them 
not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” 

“Our law-makers are not, I fear, of his kingdom,” 
answered Mr. Dinneford, gravely, “ but of the kingdom 
of this world.” 

A little while after, Edith, who had remained silent 
and thoughtful, said, with a tremor in her voice, 

“ Father, did you see my baby ?” 

Mr. Dinneford started at so unexpected a question, sur- 
prised and disturbed. He did not reply, and Edith put 
the question again. 

“No, my dear,” he answered, with a hesitation of 
manner that was almost painful. 

After looking into his face steadily for some moments, 
Edith dropped her eyes to the floor, and there was a con- 
strained silence between them for a good while. 

“ You never saw it?” she queried, again lifting her eyes 
to her father’s face. Her own was much paler than when 
she first put the question. 

“ Never.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


61 


“ Wliy f asked Edith. 

She waited for a little while, and then said, 

“ Why don’t you answer me, father ?” 

<< It was never brought to me.” 

“ Oh, father I” 

“ You were very ill, and a nurse was procured imme- 
diately.” 

“ I was not too sick to see my baby,” said Edith, with 
white, quivering lips. « If they had laid it in my bosom 
as soon as it was born, I would never have been so ill, and 
the baby would not have died. If — if — ” 

She held back what she was about saying, shutting her 
lips tightly. Her face remained very pale and strangely 
agitated. Nothing more was then said. 

A day or two afterward, Edith asked her mother, with 
an abruptness that sent the color to her face, “ Where was 
my baby buried ?” 

“ In our lot at Fairview,” was replied, after a moment’s 
pause. ^ 

Edith said no more, but on that very day, regardless 
of a heavy rain that was falling, went out to the cem- 
etery alone, and searched in the family lot for the 
little mound that covered her baby — searched, but did 
not find it. She came back so changed in appearance 
that when her mother saw her she exclaimed, 

“ Why, Edith ! Are you sick ?” 

“ I have been looking for my baby’s grave and cannot 
find it,” she answered. ‘‘There is something wrong, 
mother. What was done with my baby? I must know.” 
And she caught her mother’s wrists with both of her 


62 


CAST ADEIFT. 


hands in a tight grip, and sent searching glances down 
through her eyes. 

“ Your baby is dead,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, speak- 
ing slowly and with a hard deliberation. “As for its 
grave — ^well, if you will drag up the miserable past, know 
that in my anger at your wretched misalliance I rejected 
even the dead body of your miserable husband’s child, 
and would not even suffer it to lie in our family 
ground. You know how bitterly I was disappointed, and 
I am not one of the kind that forgets or forgives easily. 
I may have been wrong, but it is too late now, and the 
past may as well be covered out of sight.” 

“Where, then, was my baby buried?” asked Edith, 
with a calm resolution of manner- that was not to be 
denied. 

“ I do not know. I did not care at the time, and never 
asked.” 

“ Who can tell me ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Who took my baby to nurse ?” 

“ I have forgotten the woman’s name. All I know is 
that she is dead. When the child died, I sent her money, 
and told her to bury it decently.” 

“ Where did she live ?” 

“ I never knew precisely. Somewhere down town.” 

“Who brought her here? who recommended her?” 
said Edith, pushing her inquiries rapidly. 

“ I have forgotten that also,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, 
maintaining her coldness of manner. 

“ My nurse, I presume,” said Edith. “ I have a faint 


CAST ADRIFT. 63 

recollection of her — a dark little woman with black eyes 
whom I had never seen before. What was her name ?” 

“Bodine,” answered Mrs. Dinneford, without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation. 

“ Where does she live ?” 

“She went to Havana with a Cuban lady several 
months ago.” 

Do you know the lady’s name ?” 

“ It was Casteline, I think.” 

Edith questioned no further. The mother and daugh- 
ter were still sitting together, both deeply absorbed in 
thought, when a servant opened the door and said to Mrs. 
Dinneford, 

“ A lady wishes to see you.” 

“ Didn’t she give you her card ?” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ Nor send up her name?” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ Go down and ask her name.” 

The servant left the room. On returning, she said, 

“ Her name is Mrs. Bray.” 

Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in 
time to prevent Edith from seeing by its expression that 
she knew her visitor, and that her call was felt to be an 
unwelcome one. She went from the room without speak- 
ing. On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said, in a 
low, hurried voice, 

“ I don’t want you to come here, Mrs. Bray. If you 
wish to see me send me word, and I will call on yotH, but 
you must on no account come here.” 


64 


CAST ADRIFT. 


ti Why ? Is anything wrong 

«Yes.” 

“Whatr 

“ Edith isn’t satisfied about the baby, has been out to 
Fairview looking for its grave, wants to know who her 
nurse was.” 

“ What did you tell her ?” 

“ I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you 
had gone to Cuba.” 

“ Do you think she would know me ?” 

“ Can’t tell ; wouldn’t like to run the risk of her seeing 
you here. Pull down your veil. There ! close. She said, 
a little while ago, that she had a faint recollection of 
you as a dark little woman with black eyes whom she 
had never seen before.” 

Indeed I” and Mrs. Bray gatherec^her veil close about 
her face. 

“ The baby isn’t living ?” Mrs. Dinneford asked the 
question in a whisper. 

“Yes.” 

“ Oh, it can’t be I Are you sure ?” 

“ Yes ; I saw it day before yesterday.” 

“ You did ! Where ?” 

“ On the street, in the arms of a beggar-woman.” 

“ You are deceiving me I” Mrs. Dinneford spoke with 
a throb of anger un her voice. 

“ As I live, no ! Poor little thing ! half starved and 
half frozen. It ’most made me sick.” 

“f!’s impossible I You could |iot know that it was 
Edith’s baby.” v 


CAST ADRIFT. 65 

“ I do know,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a voice that left no 
doubt on Mrs. Dinneford’s mind. 

“Was the woman the same to whom we gave the 
baby?” 

“ No ; she got rid of it in less than a month.” 

“ What did she do with it ?” 

“Sold it for five dollars, after she had spent all the 
money she received from you in drink and lottery- 
policies.” 

“ Sold it for five dollars !” 

“ Yes, to two beggar-women, who use it every day, one 
in the morning and the other in the afternoon, and get 
drunk on the money they receive, lying all night in some 
miserable den.” 

Mrs. Dinneford gave a little shiver. 

“ What becomes of the baby when they are not using 
it?” she asked. 

“ They -pay a woman a dollar a week to take care of it 
at night.” 

“ Do you know where this woman lives ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Were you ever there ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What kind of a place is it?” 

“ Worse than a dog-kennel.” 

“What does all this mean?” demanded Mrs. Dinne- 
ford, with repressed excitement. “Why have you so 
kept on the track of this baby, when you knew I wished 
it lost sight of?” ^ 

“ I had my own reasons,” replied Mrs. Bray. “ One 
- 6* . E ♦ 


66 


CAST ADRIFT. 


doesn’t know wkat may come of an affair like tkis, and 
it’s safe to keep well up witk it.” 

Mrs. Dinneford bit her lips till the blood almost came 
through. A faint rustle of garments in the hall caused 
her to start. An expression of alarm crossed her face. 

“ Go now,” she said, hurriedly, to her visitor ; “ I will 
call and see you this afternoon.” 

Mrs. Bray quietly arose, saying, as she did so, “ I shall 
expect you,” and went away. 

There was a menace in her tone as she said, “ I shall 
expect you,” that did not escape the ears of Mrs. Dinne- 
ford. 

Edith was in the hall, at some distance from the parlor 
door. Mrs. Bray had to pass her as she went out. Edith 
looked at her intently. 

“Who is that woman?” she asked, confronting her 
mother, after the visitor was gone. 

“ If you ask the question in a proper manner, I shall 
have no objection to answer,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with a 
dignified and slightly offended air ; “ but my daughter is 
assuming rather too much.” 

“ Mrs. Bray, the servant said.” 

“ No, Mrs. Gray.” • 

“ I understood her to say Mrs. Bray.” 

“ I can’t help what you understood.” The mother spoke 
with some asperity of manner. “ She calls herself Gray, 
but you can have it anything you please ; it won’t change 
her identity.” 

“What did she want?” 

“ To see me.” 


CAST ADRIFT, 


67 


“ I know.” Edith was turning away with an expres- 
sion on her face that Mrs. Dinneford did not like, so she 
said, 

“ She is in trouble, and wants me to help her, if you 
must know. She used to be a dressmaker, and worked 
for me before you were born ; she got married, and then 
her troubles began. Now she is a widow with a house 
full of little children, and not half bread enough to feed 
them. I’ve helped her a number of times already, but 
I’m getting tired of it ; she must look somewhere else, and 
I told her so.” 

Edith turned from her mother with an unsatisfied man- 
ner, and went up stairs. Mrs. Dinneford was surprised, 
not long afterward, to meet her at her chamber door, 
dressed to go t)ut. This was something unusual. 

“ Where are you going ?” she asked, not concealing her 
surprise. 

“ I have a little errand out,” Edith replied. 

This was not satisfactory to her mother. She asked 
other questions, but Edith gave only evasive answers. 

On leaving the house, Edith walked quickly, like one 
in earnest about something ; her veil was closely drawn. 
Only a few blocks from where she lived was the office of 
Dr. Kadclifie. Hither she directed her steps. 

Why, Edith, child !” exclaimed the doctor, not con- 
cealing the surprise he felt at seeing her. “ Nobody sick, 
I hope?” 

“ No one,” she answered. 

There was a momentary pause ; then Edith said, ab- 
ruptly. 


68 


CAST ADRIFT. 


‘‘ Doctor, what became of my baby 

“ It died,” answered Doctor Radcliffe, but not without 
betraying some confusion. The question had fallen upon 
him too suddenly. 

“ Did you see it after it was dead ?” She spoke in a 
firm voice, looking him steadily in the face. 

No,” he replied, after a slight hesitation. 

“ Then how do you know that it died ?” Edith asked. 

“ I had your mother’s word for it,” said the doctor. 

“ What was done with my baby after it was born ?” 

‘‘ It was given out to nurse.” 

“ With your consent ?” 

“ I did not advise it. Your mother had her own views 
in the case. It was something over which I had no con- 
trol.” 

“ And you never saw it after it was taken away ?” 

“ Never.” 

“And do not really know whether it be dead or 
living ?” 

“ Oh, it’s dead, of course, my child. There is no doubt 
of that,” said the doctor, with sudden earnestness of 
manner. 

“ Have you any evidence of the fact ?” 

“ My dear, dear child,” answered the doctor, with much 
feeling, “it is all wrong. Why go back over this un- 
happy ground ?“ why torture yourself for nothing ? Your 
baby died long ago, and is in heaven.” 

“Would God I could believe it!” she exclaimed, in 
strong agitation. “ If it were so, why is not the evidence 
set before me? I question my mother; I ask for the 


CAST ADBIFT. 


69 


nuree who was with me when my baby was born, and 
for the nurse to whom it was given afterward, and am 
told that they are dead or out of the country. I ask for 
my baby’s grave, but it cannot be found. I have searched 
for it where my mother told me it was, but the grave is 
not there. Why all this hiding and mystery ? Doctor, 
you said that my baby was in heaven, and I answered, 
‘Would God it were so!’ for I saw a baby in hell not 
long ago I” 

The doctor was scared. He feared that Edith was 
losing her mind, she looked and spoke so wildly. 

“A puny, half-starved, half-frozen little thing, in the 
arms of a drunken beggar,” she added. “And, doctor, 
an awful thought has haunted me ever since.” 

“Hush, hush!” said the doctor, who saw what was in 
her mind. “ You must not indulge such morbid fancies.” 

It is that I may not indulge them that I have come 
to you. I want certainty. Dr. Radcliffe. Somebody 
knows all about my baby. Who was my nurse ?” 

“ I never saw her before the night of your baby’s birth, 
and have never seen her since. Your mother procured 
her.” 

“ Did you hear her name ?” 

“No.” " 

“ And so you cannot help me at all ?” said Edith, in a 
disappointed voice. 

“ I cannot, my poor child,” answered the doctor. 

All the flush and excitement died out of Edith’s face. 
When she arose to go, she was pale and haggard, like one 
exhausted by pain, and her steps uneven, like the steps 


70 


CAST ADRIFT 


of an invalid walking for the first time. Dr. Radcliflh 
went with her in silence to the door. 

“ Oh, doctor,” said Edith, in a choking voice, as she 
lingered a moment on the steps, “ can’t you bring out of 
this frightful mystery something for my heart to rest 
upon ? I want the truth. Oh, doctor, in pity help me to 
find the truth !” 

‘‘I am powerless to help you,” the doctor replied. 
“Your only hope lies in your mother. She knows all 
about it ; I do not.” 

And he turned and left her standing at the door. 
Slowly she descended the steps, drawing her veil as she 
did so about her face, and walked away more like one in 
a dream than conscious of the tide of life setting so 
strongly all about her. 


CHAPTER V. 


M eantime, obeying the unwelcome summons, Mrs. 

Dinneford had gone to see Mrs. Bray. She found 
her in a small third-story room in the lower part of the 
city, over a mile away from her own residence. The 
meeting between the two women was not over-gracious, 
but in keeping with their relations to each other. Mrs. 
Dinneford was half angry and impatient ,* Mrs. Bray cool 
and self-possessed. 

“And now what is it you have to say?” asked the 
former, almost as soon as she had entered. 

“ The woman to whom you gave that baby was here 
yesterday.” 

A frightened expression came into Mrs. Dinneford’s 
face. Mrs. Bray watched her keenly as, with lips slightly 
apart, she waited for what more was to come. 

“ Unfortunately, she met me just as I was at my own 
door, and so found out my residence,” continued Mrs. 
Bray. “I was in hopes I should never see her again. 
We shall have trouble. I’m afraid.” 

“ In what way ?” 

“A bad woman who has you in her power can, trouble 
you in many ways,” answered Mrs. Bray. 

“ She did not know my name — you assured me of that. 
It was one of the stipulations.” 


71 


72 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ She does know, and your daughter’s name also. And 
she knows where the baby is. She’s deeper than I sup- 
posed. It’s never safe to trust such people ; they have no 
honor.” 

Fear sent all the color out of Mrs. Dinneford’s face. 

“ What does she want ?” 

“ Money.” 

“ She was paid liberally.” 

‘‘ That has nothing to do with it. These people have 
no honor, as I said ; they will get all they can.” 

“ How much does she want ?” 

“A hundred dollars; and it won’t end there, I’m 
thinking. If she is refused, she will go to your house ; 
she gave me that alternative — would have gone yester- 
day, if good luck had not thrown her in my way. I 
promised to call on you and see what could be done.” 

Mrs. Dinneford actually groaned in her fear and dis- 
tress. 

“Would you like to see her yourself ?” coolly asked 
Mrs. Bray. 

“ Oh dear ! no, no !” and the lady put up her hands in 
dismay. 

“ It might be best,” said her wily .companion. 

“ No, no, no ! I will have nothing to do with her I You 
must keep her away from me,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, 
with increasing agitation. 

“ I cannot keep her away without satisfying her demands. 
If you were to see her yourself, you would know just 
what her demands were. If you do not see her, you will 
only have my word for it, and I am left open to misap- 


CAST ADRIFT. 


73 


prehension, if not worse. I don’t like to be placed in 
such a position.” 

And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner. 

“ It’s a wretched business in every way,” she added, 
“ and I’m sorry that I ever had anything to do with it. 
It’s something dreadful, as I told you at the time, to cast 
a helpless baby adrift in such a way. Poor little soul ! 
I shall never feel right about it.” 

“ That’s neither here nor there and Mrs. Dinneford 
waved her hand impatiently. “ The thing now in hand 
is to deal with this woman.” 

“Yes, that’s it — and as I said just now, I would rather 
have you deal with her yourself ; you may be able to do 
it better than I can.” 

“ It’s no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the 
woman.”- 

“ Very well ; you must be your own judge in the case.” 

“ Can’t you 'bind her up to something, or get her out 
of the city ? I’d pay almost anything^ to have her a 
thousand miles away. See if you can’t induce her to go 
to New Orleans. I’ll pay her passage, and give her a 
hundred dollars besides, if she’ll go.” 

Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile : 

“ If you could get her off there, it would be the end of 
her. She’d never stand the fever.” 

“ Then get her off, cost what it may,” Said Mrs. Dinne- 
ford. 

“ She will be, here in less than half an hour.” Mrs. 
Bray looked at the face of a small cheap clock that stood 
on the mantel. 




7 


74 


CAST ADBIFT. 


« She will?” Mrs. Dinneford became uneasy, and arose 
from her chair. 

“ Yes ; what shall I say to her ?” 

“ Manage her the best you can. Here are thirty dol- 
lars — all the money I have with me. Give her that, and 
promise more if necessary. I will see you again.” 

“ When ?” asked Mrs. Bray. 

“ At any time you desire.” 

“Then you had better come to-morrow morning. I 
shall not go out.” 

“ I will be here at eleven o’clock. Induce her if possi- 
ble to leave the city — to go South, so that she may never 
come back.” 

“ The best I can shall be done,” replied Mrs. Bray as 
she folded the bank-bills she had received, from Mrs. Din- 
ueford in a fond, tender sort of way and put them into 
her pocket. 

Mrs. Dinneford retired,^ saying as she did so, 

“ I will be here in the morning.” 

An instant change came over the sallow face of the 
wiry little woman as the form of Mrs. Dinneford vanished 
through the door. A veil seemed to fall away from it. All 
its virtuous sobriety was gone, and a smile of evil satisfac- 
tion curved about her lips and danced in her keen black 
eyes. She stood still, listening to the retiring steps of her 
visitor, until she heard the street door shut. Then, with 
a quick, cat-like step, she, crossed to the opposite side of 
the room, and pushed open a door that led to an adjoin- 
ing chamber. A woman came forward to meet her. This 
woman was taller and stouter than Mrs. Bray, and had a 


CAST ADRIFT. 


75 


soft, sensual face, but a resolute mouth, the under jaw 
slightly protruding. Her eyes were small and close to- 
gether, and had that peculiar wily and alert expression 
you sometimes see, making you think of a serpent’s eyes. 
She was dressed in common finery and adorned by cheap 
jewelry. 

“ What do you think of that, Pinky Swett ?” exclaimed 
Mrs. Bray, in a voice of exultation. “ Got her all right, 
haven’t I?” 

“Well, you have!” answered the woman, shaking all 
over with unrestrained laughter. “The fattest pigeon 
I’ve happened to see for a month of Sundays. Is she 
very rich ?” 

“ Her husband is, and that’s all the same. And now. 
Pinky” — ^Mrs. Bray assumed a mock gravity of tone and 
manner — “you know your fate — New Orleans and the 
yellow fever. You must pack right off. Passage free 
and a hundred dollars for funeral expenses. Nice wet 
graves down there — ^keep ofi* the fire;” and she gave a 
low chuckle. 

“Oh yes; all settled. When does the next steamer 
sail ?” and Pinky almost screamed with merriment. She 
had been drinking. 

“H-u-s-h! h-u-s-h! None of that here. Pinky. The 
people down stairs are good Methodists, and think me a 
saint.” 

“You a saint? Oh dear!” and she shook with re- 
pressed enjoyment. 

After this the two women grew serious, and put their 
heads together for business. 


76 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ Who is this woman, Fan ? What’s her name, and 
where does she live ?” asked Pinky Swett. 

That’s my secret. Pinky,” replied Mrs. Bray, ‘‘ and I 
can’t let it go ; it wouldn’t be safe. You get a little off 
the handle sometimes, and don’t know what you say — • 
might let the cat out of the bag. Sally Long took the 
baby away, and she died two months ago ; so I’m the 
only one now in the secret. All I want of you is to keep 
track of the baby. Here is a five-dollar bill ; I can’t 
trust you with more at a time. I know your weakness. 
Pinky;” and she touched her under the chin in a fa- 
miliar, patronizing way. 

Pinky wasn’t satisfied with this, and growled a little, 
just showing her teeth like an unquiet dog. 

Give me ten,” she said ; “ the woman gave you thirty. 
I heard her say so. And she’s going to bring you seventy 
to-morrow.” 

“ You’ll only waste it. Pinky,” remonstrated Mrs. Bray. 
“It will all be gone before morning.” 

“ Fan,” said the woman, leaning toward Mrs. Bray and 
speaking in a low, confidential tone, “ I dreamed of a cow 
last night, and that’s good luck, you know. Tom Oaks 
made a splendid hit last Saturday — drew twenty dollars 
— ^and Sue Minty got ten. They’re all buzzing about it 
down in our street, and going to Sam McFaddon’s office 
in a stream.” 

“ Do they have good luck at Sam McFaddon’s ?” asked 
Mrs. Bray, with considerable interest in her manner. 

“ It’s the luckiest place that I know. Never dreamed 
of a cow or a hen that I didn’t make a hit, and I dreamed 


CAST ADRIFT. 


77 


of a cow last night. She was giving such a splendid pail 
of milk, full to the brim,. just as old Spot and Brindle 
used to give. You remember our Spot and Brindle, 
Fan?” 

“Oh yes.” There was a falling inflection in Mrs. 
Bray’s voice, as if the reference had sent her thoughts 
away back to other and more innocent days. 

The two women sat silent for some moments after that ; 
and when Pinky spoke, which she did first, it was in 
lower and softer tones : 

“I don’t like to think much about them old times, 
Fan ; do you ? I might have done better. But it’s no 
use grizzling about it now. What’s done’s done, and 
can’t be helped. Water doesn’t run up hill again after 
it’s once run down. I’ve got going, and can’t stop, you 
see. There’s nothing to catch at that won’t break as soon 
as you touch it. So I mean to be jolly as I move along.” 

“ Laughing is better than crying at any time,” returned 
Mrs. Bray ; “ here are five more and she handed Pinky 
Swett another bank-bill. “I’m going to try my luck. 
Put half a dollar on ten different rows, and we’ll go shares 
on what is drawn. I dreamed the other night that I saw 
a flock of sheep, and that’s good luck, isn’t it ?” 

Pinky thrust her hand into her pocket and drew Out a 
worn and soiled dream-book. 

“ A flock of sheep ; let me see and she commenced 
turning over the leaves. “ Sheep ; here it is : ‘ To see 
them is a sign of sorrow — 11, 20, 40, 48. To be sur- 
rounded by many sheep denotes good luck — 2, 11, 55.’ 
That’s your row; put dowm 2, 11, 55. We’ll try that. 

7 * 


78 


CAST ADRIFT, 


Next put down 4, 11, 44 — that’s the lucky row when you 
dream of a cow.” 

As Pinky leaned toward her friend she dropped her 
parasol. 

That’s for luck, maybe,” she said, with a brightening 
face. “ Let’s see what it says about a parasol ;” and she 
turned over her dream-book. 

“ For a maiden to dream she loses her parasol shows that 
her sweetheart is false and will never marry her — 5, 51, 56.” 

“ But you didn’t dream about a parasol. Pinky.” 

That’s no matter ; it’s just as good as a dream. 5, 51, 
56 is the row. Put that down for the second. Fan.” 

As Mrs. Bray was writing out these numbers the clock 
on the mantel struck five. 

“ 8, 12, 60,” said Pinky, turning to the clock ; “ that’s 
the clock row.” 

And Mrs. Bray put down these figures also. 

“ That’s three rows,” said Pinky, “ and we want ten.” 
She arose, as she spoke, and going to the front window, 
looked down upon the street. 

“There’s an organ-grinder; it’s the first thing I saw;” 
and she came back fingering the leaves of her dream- 
book. “ Put down 40, 50, 26.” 

Mrs. Bray wrote the numbers on her slip of paper. 

“ It’s November ; let’s find the November row.” Pinky 
consulted her book again. “ Signifies you will have 
trouble through life— 7, 9, 63. That’s true as preaching ; 
I was born in November, and I’ve had it all trouble. 
How many rows does that make ?” 

“ Five.” 


CAST ADRIFT 


79 


“ Then we will cut cards for the rest and Pinky drew 
a soiled pack from her pocket, shuffled the cards and let 
her friend cut them. 

“Ten of diamonds;” she referred to the dream-book. 
“ 10, 13, 31 ; put that down.” 

The cards were shuffled and cut again. 

“ Six of clubs — 6, 35, 39.” 

Again they were cut and shuffled. This time the 
knave of clubs was turned up. 

“That’s 17, 19, 28,” said Pinky, reading from her 
book. 

The next cut gave the ace of clubs, and the policy- 
numbers were 18, 63, 75. 

“ Once more, and the ten rows will be full ;” and the 
cards were cut again. 

“ Five of hearts — 5, 12, 60 ;” and the ten rows were 
complete. 

“ There’s luck there. Fan ; sure to make a hit,” said 
Pinky, with almost childish confidence, as she gazed at 
the ten rows of figures. “ One of ’em can’t help coming 
out right, and that would be fifty dollars — twenty-five 
for me and twenty-five for you ; two rows would give a 
hundred dollars, and the whole ten a thousand. Think 
of that. Fan ! five hundred dollars apiece.” 

“It would break Sam McFaddon, I’m afraid,” re- 
marked Mrs. Bray. 

“ Sam’s got nothing to do with it,” returned Pinky. 

“He hasn’t?” 

“No.” 

“ Who has, then ?” 


80 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ His backer.” % 

“What’s that?” 

“ Oh, I found it all out — I know how it’s done. Sam’s 
got a backer — a man that puts up the money. Sam only 
sells for his backer. When there’s a hit, the backer pays.” 

“ Who’s. Sam’s backer, as you call him?” 

“ Couldn’t get him to tell ; tried him hard, but he was 
close as an oyster. Drives in the Park and wears a two 
thousand dollar diamond pin ; he let that out. So he’s 
good for the hits. Sam always puts the money down, 
fair and square.” 

“Very well; you get the policy, and do it right off, 
Pinky, or the money’ll slip through your fingers.” 

“ All right,” answered Pinky as she folded the slip of 
paper containing the lucky rows. “Never you fear, 
ril be at Sam McFaddon’s in ten minutes after I leave 
here.” 

“ And be sure,” said Mrs. Bray, “ to look after the 
baby to-night, and see that it doesn’t perish with cold ; 
the air’s getting sharp.” 

“ It ought to have something warmer than cotton rags 
on its poor little body,” returned Pinky. “ Can’t you get » 
it some flannel ? It will die if you don’t.” 

“ I sent it a warm petticoat last week,” said Mrs. Bray. 

“You did?” 

“ Yes ; I bought one at a Jew shop, and had it sent to 
the woman.” 

“ Was it a nice warm one?” 

“Yes.” 

Pinky drew a sigh. “ I saw the poor baby last night ; 


CAST ADRIFT, 


81 


hadn’t anything on but dirty cotton rags. It was lying 
asleep in a cold cellar on a little heap of straw. The 
woman had given it something, I guess, by the way it 
slept. The petticoat had gone, most likely, to Sam Mc- 
Faddon’s. She spends everything she can lay her hands 
on in policies and whisky.” 

“ She’s paid a dollar a week for taking care of the baby 
at night and on Sundays,” said Mrs. Bray. 

“ It wouldn’t help the baby any if she got ten dollars,” 
returned Pinky. “ It ought to be taken away from her.” 

“ But who’s to do that ? Sally Long sold it to the two 
beggar women, and they board it out. I have no right 
to interfere ; they own the baby, and can do as they please 
with it.” 

“ It could be got to the almshouse,” said Pinky ; “ it 
would be a thousand times better off.” 

“ It mustn’t go to the almshouse,” replied Mrs. Bray ; 
“ I might lose track of it, and that would never do.” 

“ You’ll lose track of it for good and all before long, 
if you don’t get it out of them women’s hands. No baby 
can hold out being begged with long ; it’s too hard on the 
little things. For you know how it is, Fan ; they must 
keep ’em half starved and as sick as they will bear with- 
out dying right off, so as to make ’em look pitiful. You 
_ can’t do much at begging with a fat, hearty-looking baby.” 

“ What’s to be done about it ?” asked Mrs. Bray. “ I 
don’t want that baby to die.” 

“Would its mother know it if she saw it?” asked 
Pinky. 

“ No ; for she never set eyes on it.” 


82 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ Then, if it dies, get another baby, and keep track of 
that. You can steal one from a drunken mother any 
night in the week. I’ll do it 'for you. One baby is as 
good as another.” 

“ It will be safer to have the real one,” replied Mrs. 
Bray. “And now. Pinky, that you have put this thing 
into my head, I guess I’ll commission you to get the baby 
away from that woman.” 

“All right!” 

“ But what are we to do with it ? I can’t have it here.” 

“ Of course you can’t. But that’s easily managed, if 
your’re willing to pay for it.” 

“Pay for it?” 

“Yes; if it isn’t begged with, and made to pay its way 
and earn something into the bargain, it’s got to be a dead 
weight on somebody. So you see how it is. Fan. Now, 
if you’ll take a fool’s advice, you’ll let it go to the alms- 
house, or let it alone to die and get out of its misery as soon 
as possible. You can find another baby that will do just 
as well, if you should ever need one.” 

“ How much would it cost, do you think, to have it 
boarded with some one who wouldn’t abuse it? She might 
beg with it herself, or hire it out two or three times a 
week. I guess it would stand that.” 

“ Beggars don’t belong to the merciful kind,” answered 
Pinky; “there’s no trusting any of them. A baby in 
their hands is never safe. I’ve seen ’em brought in at 
night more dead than alive, and tossed on a dirty rag- 
heap to die before morning. I’m always glad when 
they’re out of their misery, poor things! The fact is, 


CAST ADRIFT. 83 

Fan, if you expect that baby to live, you’ve got to take 
it clean out of the hands of beggars.” 

“What could I get it boarded for outright?” asked 
Mrs. Bray. 

“For ’most anything, ’cording to how it’s done. But 
why not, while you’re about it, bleed the old lady, its 
grandmother, a little deeper, and take a few drops for the 
baby?” 

“ Guess you’re kind o’ right about that. Fan ; anyhow, 
we’ll make a start on it. You find another place for the 
brat.” 

“ ’Greed ; when shall I do it ?” 

“ The sooner, the better. It might die of cold any night 
in that horrible den. • Ugh !” 

“ I’ve been in worse places. Bedlow street is full of 
them, and so is Briar street and Dirty alley. You don’t 
know anything about it.” 

“Maybe not, and maybe I don’t care to know. At 
present I want to settle about this baby. You’ll find 
another place for it?” 

“Yes.” 

“And then steal it from the woman who has it now?” 

“Yes; no trouble in the world. She’s drunk every 
night,” answered Pinky Swett, rising to go. 

“You’ll see me to-morrow?” said Mrs. Bray. 

“ Oh yes.” 

“And you won’t forget about the policies?” 

“Not I. We shall make a grand hit, or I’m a fool. 
Day-day !” Pinky waved her hand gayly, and then re- 
tired. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A COLD, drizzling rain was beginning to fall when 
Pinky Swett emerged from the house. Twilight 
was gathering drearily. She drew her thin shawl closely, 
and shivered as the east wind struck her with a chill. 

A hurried walk of five or ten minutes brought her to a 
part of the town as little known to its citizens generally 
as if it were in the centre of Africa— a part of the town 
where vice, crime, drunkenness and beggary herd to- 
gether in the closest and most shameless contact ; where 
men and women, living in all foulness, and more like 
wild beasts than human beings, prey greedily upon each 
other,' hurting, depraving and marring God’s image in 
all over whom they can get power or influence — a very 
hell upon the earth ! — a part of the town where theft and 
robbery and murder are plotted, and from which prisons 
and almshouses draw their chief population. 

That such a herding together, almost in the centre of a 
great Christian city, of the utterly vicious and degraded, 
should be permitted, when every day’s police and crimi- 
nal records give warning of its cost and danger, is a mar- 
vel and a reproach. Almost every other house, ^n por- 
tions of this locality, is a dram-shop, where the vilest 
liquors are sold. Policy-oflices, doing business in direct 
violation of law, are in every street and block, their 
84 


CAST ADRIFT. 


85 


work of plunder and demoralization going on with open 
doors and under the very eyes of the police. Every one of 
them is known to these officers. But arrest is useless. A 
hidden and malign influence, more potent than justice, 
has power to protect the traffic and hold the guilty 
offenders harmless. Conviction is rarely, if ever, 
reached. 

The poor wretches, depraved and plundered through 
drink and policy-gambling, are driven into crime. They 
rob and steal and debase themselves for money with 
which to buy rum and policies, and sooner or later the 
prison or death removes the greater number of them from 
their vile companions. But drifting toward this fatal lo- 
cality under the attraction of affinity, or lured thither by 
harpies in search of new supplies of human victims to 
repair the frightful waste perpetually made, the region 
keeps up its dense population, and the work of destroy- 
ing human souls goes on. It is an awful thing to con- 
template. Thousands of men and women, boys and girls, 
once innocent as the babes upon whom Christ laid his 
hand in blessing, are drawn into this whirlpool of evil 
every year, and few come out except by the way of prison 
or death. 'N, 

It was toward this locality that Pinky Swett directed 
her feet after parting with Mrs. Bray. Darkness was be- 
ginning to settle down as she turned off from one of the 
most populous streets, crowded at the time by citizens on 
their way to quiet and comfortable homes, few if any of 
whom had ever turned aside to look upon and get know- 
ledge of the world of crime and wretchedness so near at 
8 


86 


CAST ADEIFT. 


hand, but girdled in and concealed from common ob- 
servation. 

Down a narrow street she turned from the great thor- 
oughfare, walking with quick steps, and shivering a little 
as the penetrating east wind sent a chill of dampness 
through the thin shawl she drew closer and closer about 
her shoulders. Nothing could be in stronger contrast 
than the rows of handsome dwellings and stores that 
lined the streets through which she had just passed, and 
the forlorn, rickety, unsightly and tumble-down houses 
amid which she now found herself. 

Pinky had gone only a little way when the sharp cries 
of a child cut the air suddenly, the shrill, angry voice of 
a woman and the rapid fall of lashes mingled with the 
cries. The child begged for mercy in tones of agony, 
but the loud voice, uttering curses and imprecations, and 
the cruel blows, ceased not. Pinky stopped and shivered. 
She felt the pain of these blows, in her quickly-aroused 
sympathy, almost as much as if they had been falling on 
her own person. Opposite to where she had paused was 
a one-story frame house, or enclosed shed, as unsightly 
without as a pig-pen, and almost as filthy within. It con- 
tained two small rooms with very low ceilings. The only 
things in these rooms that could be called furniture were 
an old bench, two chairs from which the backs had been 
broken, a tin cup black with smoke and dirt, two or three 
tin pans in the same condition, some broken crockery 
and an iron skillet. Pinky stood still for a moment, 
shivering, as we have said. She knew what the blows 
and the curses and the cries of pain meant; she had 


CAST ADRIFT. 


87 


heard them before. A depraved and drunken woman 
and a child ten years old, who might or might not be her 
daughter, lived there. The child was sent out every day 
to beg or steal, and if she failed to bring home a certain 
sum of money, was cruelly beaten by the woman.' Al- 
most every day the poor child was cut with lashes, often 
on the bare flesh ; almost every day her shrieks rang out 
from the miserable hovel. But there was no one to inter- 
fere, no one to save her from the smarting blows, no one 
to care what she sufiered. 

Pinky Swett could stand it no longer. She had often 
noticed the ragged child, with her pale, starved face and 
large, wistful eyes, passing in and out of this miserable 
woman’s den, sometimes going to the liquor-shops and 
sometimes to the nearest policy-office to spend for her 
mother, if such the woman really was, the money she 
had gained by begging. 

With a sudden impulse, as a deep wail and a more 
piteous cry for mercy smote upon her ears. Pinky sprang 
across the street and into the hovel. The sight that met 
her eyes left no hesitation in her mind. Holding up with 
one strong arm the naked body of the poor child — she 
had drawn the clothes over her head — the infuriated 
woman was raining down blows from a short piece of rat- 
tan upon the quivering flesh, already covered with welts 
and bruises. 

Devil !” cried Pinky as she rushed upon this fiend in 
human shape and snatched the little girl from her arm. 
« Do you want to kill the child ?” 

She might almost as well have assaulted a tigress. 


88 


CAST ADRIFT. 


The woman was larger, stronger, more desperate and 
. more thoroughly given over to evil passions than she. 
To thwart her in anything was to rouse her into a fury. 
A moment she stood in surprise and bewilderment ; in the 
next, and ere Pinky had time to put herself on guard, 
she had sprung upon her with a passionate cry that 
sounded more like that of a wild beast than anything 
human. Clutching her by the tbroat with one hand, and 
with the other tearing the child from her grasp, she threw 
the frightened little thing across the room. 

« Devil, ha !’’ screamed the woman ; “ devil and she 
tightened her grasp on Pinky’s throat, at the same time 
striking her in the face with her clenched fist. 

Like a war-horse that snufis the battle afar off and 
rushes to the conflict, so' rushed the inhabitants of that 
foul neighborhood to the spot from whence had come to 
their ears the familiar and not unwelcome sound of strife. 
Even before Pinky had time to shake off her assailant, 
the door of the hovel was darkened by a screen of eager 
faces. And such faces! How little of God’s image re- 
mained in them to tell of their divine origination 1 — 
bloated and scarred, ashen pale and wasted, hollow-eyed 
and red-eyed, disease looking out from all, yet all lighted 
up with the keenest interest and expectancy. 

Outside, the crowd swelled with a marvelous rapidity. 
Every cellar and room and garret, every little alley and 
hidden rookery, “ hawk’s nest ” and “ wren’s nest,” poured 
out its unseemly denizens, white and black, old and 
young, male and female, the child of three years old, 
keen, alert and self-protective, running to see the “ row” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


89 


side by side with the toothless crone of seventy, or most 
likely passing her on the way. Thieves, beggars, pick- 
pockets, vile women, rag-pickers and the like, with the 
harpies who prey upon them, all were there to enjoy the 
show. 

Within, a desperate fight was going on between Pinky 
Swett and the woman from whose hands she had attempted 
to rescue the child — a fight in which Pinky was getting 
the worst of it. One garment after another was torn 
from her person, until little more than a single one re- 
mained. 

“ Here’s the police ! look out !” was cried at this junc- 
ture. 

“ AVho cares for the police ? Let ’em come,” boldly re- 
torted the woman. “ I haven’t done nothing ; it’s her that’s 
come in drunk and got up a row.” 

Pushing the crowd aside, a policeman entered the hovel. 

“ Here she is !” cried the woman, pointing toward Pinky, 
from whom she had sprung back the moment she heard 
the word police. “ She came in here drunk and got up 
a row. I’m a decent woman, as don’t meddle with nobody. 
But she’s awful when she gets drunk. Just look at her 
— ^been tearing her clothes off!” 

At this there was a shout of merriment from the crowd 
who had witnessed the fight. 

“ Good for old Sal ! she’s one of ’em ! Can’t get ahead 
of old Sal, drunk or sober !” and like expressions were 
shouted by one and another. 

Poor Pinky, nearly stripped of her clothing, and with 
a great bruise swelling under one of her eyes, bewildered 
8 * 


90 


CAST ADBIFT 


and frightened at the aspect of things around her, could 
make no acceptable defence. 

“She ran over and pitched into Sal, so she did! I 
saw her ! She made the fight, she did !” testified one of 
the crowd ; and acting on this testimony and his own 
judgment of the case, the policeman said roughly, as he 
laid his hand on Pinky, 

“ Pick up your duds and come along.” 

Pinky lifted her torn garments from the dirty floor 
and gathered them about her person as best she could, 
the crowd jeering all the time. A pin here and there, 
furnished by some of the women, enabled her to get 
them into a sort of shape and adjustment. Then she 
tried to explain the afiair to the policeman, but he would 
not listen. 

“ Come !” he said, sternly. 

“ What are you going to do with me ?” she asked, not 
moving from where she stood. 

“Lock you up,” replied the policeman. “So come 
along.” 

“What’s the matter here?” demanded a tall, strongly- 
built woman, pressing forward. She spoke with a for- 
eign accent, and in a tone of command. The motley 
crowd, above whom she towered, gave way for her as she 
approached. Everything about the woman showed her 
to be superior in mind and moral force to the unsightly 
wretches about her. She had the fair skin, blue eyes and 
light hair of her nation. Her features were strong, but 
not masculine. You saw in them no trace of coarse sen- 
suality or vicious indulgence. 


CAST ADRIFT. 91 

“Here’s Norahl here’s the queen I” shouted a voice 
from the crowd. 

“ What’s the matter here ?” asked the woman as she 
gained an entrance to the hovel. 

“ Going to lock up Pinky Swett,” said a ragged little 
girl who had forced her way in., 

“ What for?” demanded the w6man, speaking with the 
air of one in authority. 

“ ’Cause she wouldn’t let old Sal beat Kit half to death,” 
answered the child. 

“Ho! Sal’s a devil and Pinky’s a fool to meddle 
with her.” Then turning to the policeman, who still had 
his hand on the girl, she said, 

“ What’re you goin’ to do, John ?” 

“ Goin’ to lock her up. She’s drunk, an’ bin a-fightin’.” 

“ You’re not goin’ to do any such thing.” 

“ I’m not drunk, and it’s a lie if anybody says so,” broke 
in Pinky. “ I tried to keep this devil from beating the 
life out of poor, little Kit, and she pitched into me and 
tore my clothes off. That’s what’s the matter.” 

The policeman quietly removed his hand from Pinky’s 
shoulder, and glanced toward the woman named Sal, and 
stood as if waiting orders. 

“ Better lock her up,” said the “ queen,” as she had been 
called. Sal snarled like a fretted wild beast. 

“ It’s awful, the way she beats poor Kit,” chimed in 
the little girl who had before spoken against her. “ If I 
was Kit, I’d run away, so I would.” 

“ I’ll wring your neck off,” growled Sal, in a fierce 
undertone, making a dash toward the girl, and swearing 


92 CAST ADRIFT 

frightfully. But the child shrank to the side of the police- 
man. 

“ If you lay a finger on Kit to-night,” said the queen, 
“ I’ll have her taken away, and you locked up into the 
the bargain.” 

Sal responded with another snarl. 

“ Come.” The queen moved toward the door. Pinky 
followed, the policeman ofiering no resistance. A few 
minutes later, and the miserable crowd of depraved 
human beings had been absorbed again into cellar and 
garret, hovel and rookery, to take up the thread of their 
evil and sensual lives, and to plot wickedness, and to 
prey upon and deprave each other — to dwell as to their 
inner and real lives among infernals, to be in hell as to 
their spirits, while their bodies yet remained upon the 
earth. 

Pinky and her rescuer passed down the street for 
a short distance until they came to another that was 
still narrower. On each side dim lights shone from the 
houses, and 'made some revelation of what was going on 
within. Here liquor was sold, and there policies. Here 
was a junk-shop, and there an eating-saloon where for 
six cents you could make a meal out of the cullings from 
beggars’ baskets. Not very tempting to an ordinary 
appetite was the display inside, nor agreeable to the nos- 
trils the odors that filled the atmosphere. But hunger 
like the swines’, that was not over-nice, satisfied itself 
amid these disgusting conglomerations, and kept ofi* star- 
vation. 

Along this wretched street, with scarcely an apology 


CAST ADRIFT. 


93 


for a sidewalk, moved Pinky and the queen, until they 
reached a small two-story frame house that presented a 
different aspect from the wretched tenements amid which 
it stood. It was clean upon the outside, and had, as con- 
trasted with its neighbors, an air of superiority. This 
was the queen’s residence. Inside, all was plain and 
homely, but clean and in order. 

The excitement into which Pinky had been thrown was 
nearly over by this time. 

“ You’ve done me a good turn, Norah,” she said as the 
door closed upon them, “ and I’ll not soon forget you.” 

“ Ugh !” ejaculated Norah as she looked into Pinky’s 
bruised face ; “ Sal’s hit you square in the eye ; it’ll be 
black as y’r boot by morning. I’ll get some cold water.” 

A basin of cold water was brought, and Pinky held a 
wet cloth to the swollen spot for a long time, hoping 
thereby not only to reduce the swelling, but to prevent 
discoloration. 

“ Y’r a fool to meddle with Sal,” said Norah as she 
set the basin of water before Pinky. 

“ Why don’t you meddle with her ? Why do you let 
her beat poor little Kit the way she does?” demanded 
Pinky. 

Norah shrugged her shoulders, and answered with no 
more feeling in her voice than if she had been speaking 
of inanimate things : 

She’s got to keep Kit up to her work.” 

“ Up to her work !” 

“Yes; that’s just it. Kit’s lazy and cheats— buys 
cakes and candies ; and Sal has to come down on her ; it’s 


94 


CAST ADRIFT. 


the way, you know. If Sal didn’t come down sharp on her 
all the while, Kit wouldn’t bring her ten cents a day. They 
all have to do it — so much a day or a lickin’ ; and a little 
lickin’ isn’t any use — got to ’most kill some of ’em. We’re 
used to it in here. Hark !” 

The screams of a child in pain rang out wildly, the 
sounds coming from across the narrow street. Quick, hard 
strokes of a lash were heard at the same time. Pinky 
turned a little pale. 

“ Only Mother Quig,” said Norah, with an indifferent 
air; “she has to do it ’most every night — ^no getting along 
any other way with Tom. It beats all how inuch he can 
stand.” 

“Oh, Norah, won’t she never stop?” cried Pinky, 
starting up. “ I can’t bear it a minute longer.” 

“ Shut y’r ears. You’ve got to,” answered the woman, 
with some impatience in her voice. “ Tom has to be kept 
to his work as well as the rest of ’em. Half the fuss he’s 
making is put on, anyhow ; he doesn’t mind a beating any 
more than a horse. I know his hollers. There’s Flana- 
gan’s Nell getting it now,” added Norah as the cries and 
entreaties of another child were heard. She drew herself 
up and listened, a slight shade of concern drifting across 
her face. 

A long, agonizing wail shivered through the air. 

“ Nell’s sick, and can’t do her work.” The woman rose 
as she spoke. “ I saw her goin’ off to-day, and told 
Flanagan she’d better keep her at home.” 

Saying this, Nprah went out quickly. Pinky following. 
With head erect and mouth set firmly, the queen strode 


CAST ADRIFT 


95 


across the street and a little way down the pavement, to 
the entrance of a cellar, from which the cries and sounds 
of whipping came. Down the five or six rotten and 
broken steps she plunged. Pinky close after her. 

“ Stop !” shouted Norah, in a tone of command. 

Instantly the blows ceased, and the cries were hushed. 

“ You’ll be hanged for murder if you don’t take care,”, 
said Norah. “ What’s Nell been doin’?” 

“Doin’, the slut!” ejaculated the woman, a short, 
bloated, revolting creature, with scarcely anything human 
in her face. “ Doin’, did ye say ? It’s nothin’ she’s been 
doin’, the lazy, trapsing huzzy I Who’s that intrudin’ 
herself in here ?” she added, fiercely, as she saw Pinky, 
making at the same time a movement toward the girl. 
“ Get out o’ here, or I’ll spile y’r pictur’ 1” 

“ Keep quiet, will you ?” said Norah, putting her hand 
on the woman and pushing her back as easily as if she 
had been a child. “Now come here, Nell, and let me 
look at you.” 

Out of the far corner of the cellar into which Flana- 
gan had thrown her when she heard Norah’s voice, and 
into the small circle of light made by a single tallow candle, 
there crept slowly the figure of a child literally clothed 
in rags. Norah reached out her hand to her as she came 
up — there was a scared look on her pinched face — and 
drew her close to the light. 

“Gracious! your hand’s like an ice-ball!” exclaimed 
Norah. 

Pinky looked at the child, and grew faint at heart. 
She had large hazel eyes, that gleamed with a singular 


96 


CAST ADRIFT. 


lustre out of the suffering, grimed and wasted little face, 
so pale and sad and pitiful that the sight of it was 
enough to draw tears from any but the brutal and 
hardened. 

“ Are you sick ?” asked Norah. 

“No, she’s not sick; she’s only shamming,” growled 
Flanagan. 

“ You shut up !” retorted Norah. “ I wasn’t speaking 
to you.” Then she repeated her question : 

“ Are you sick, Nell ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

Norah laid her hand on the child’s head : 

“ Does it hurt here ?” 

“Oh yes! It hurts so I can’t see good,” answered 
■ Nell. 

“ It’s all a lie ! I know her ; she’s shamming.” 

“Oh no, Norah!” cried the child, a sudden hope • 
blending with the fear in her voice. “ I ain’t shamming 
at all. I fell down ever so many times in the street, 
and ’most got run over. Oh dear! oh dear!” and she 
clung to the woman with a gesture of despair piteous 
to see. 

“I don’t believe you are, Nell,” said Norah, kindly. 
Then, to the woman, “ Now mind, Flanagan, Nell’s sick ; 
d’ye hear ?” 

The woman only uttered a defiant growl. 

“ She’s not to be licked again to-night.” Norah spoke 
as one having authority. 


CAST ADRIFT 


97 


“I wish ye’d be mindin’ y’r own business, and not 
come interfarin’ wid me. She’s my gal, and I’ve a right 
to lick her if I plaze.” 

‘‘ Maybe she is and maybe she isn’t,” retorted Norah. 

“ Who says she isn’t my gal ?” screamed the woman, 
firing up at this and reaching out for Nell, who shrunk 
closer to Norah. 

Maybe she is and maybe she isn’t,” said the queen, 
quietly repeating her last sentence ; ‘‘ and I think maybe 
she isn’t. So take care and mind what I say. Nell isn’t 
to be licked any more to-night.” 

“ Oh, Norah,” sobbed the child, in a husky, choking 
voice, “take me, won’t you? She’ll pinch me, and she’ll 
hit my head on the wall, and she’ll choke me and knock 
me. Oh, Norah, Norah !” 

Pinky could stand this no longer. Catching up the 
bundle of rags in her arms, she sprang out of the cellar 
and ran across the street to the queen’s house, Norah 
and Flanagan coming quickly after her. At the door, 
through which Pinky had passed, Norah paused, and 
turning to the infuriated Irish woman, said, sternly, 

“Go back! I won’t have you in here; and if you 
make a row. I’ll tell John to lock you up.” 

“ I want my Nell,” said the woman, her manner chang- 
ing. There was a shade of alarm in her voice. 

“You can’t have her to-night; so that’s settled. And 
if there’s any row, you’ll be locked up.” Saying which, 
Norah went in and shut the door, leaving Flanagan on 
the outside. 

The bundle of dirty rags with the wasted body of a 


98 


CAST ADRIFT. 


child inside, the body scarcely heavier than the rags, 
was laid by Pinky in the corner of a settee, and the un- 
sightly mass shrunk together like something inanimate. 

“I thought you’d had enough with old Sal,” said 
Norah, in a tone of reproof, as she came in. 

“ Couldn’t help it,” replied Pinky. “ I’m bad enough, 
but I can’t stand to see a child abused like that — no, not 
if I die for it.” 

Norah crossed to the settee and spoke to Nell. But 
there was no answer, nor did the bundle of rags stir. 

“ Nell ! Nell !” She called to deaf ears. Then she 
put her hand on tjie child and raised one of the arms. It 
dropped away limp as a- withered stalk, showing the ashen 
white face across which it had lain. 

The two women manifested no excitement. The child 
had fainted or was dead — which, they did not know. 
Norah straightened out the wasted little form and turned 
up the face. The eyes were shut, the mouth closed, the 
pinched features rigid, as if still giving expression to pain, 
but there was no mistaking the sign that life had gone 
out of them. It might be for a brief season, it might be 
for ever. 

A little water was thrown into the child’s face. Its 
only effect was to streak the grimy skin. 

“ Poor little thing !” said Pinky. “ I hope she’s dead.” 

“ They’re tough. They don’t die easy,” returned 
Norah. 

She isn’t one of the tough kind.” 

“ Maybe not. They say Flanagan stole her when she 
was a little thing, just toddling.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 99 

“ Don’t let’s do anything to try to bring her to,” said 
Pinky. 

Norah stood for some moments with an irresolute air, 
then bent over the child and examined her more carefully. 
She could feel no pulse beat, nor any motion of the heart. 

“ I don’t want the coroner here,” she said, in a tone 
of annoyance. “ Take her back to Flanagan ; it’s her 
work, and she must stand by it.” 

“ Is she really dead ?” asked Pinky. 

“ Looks like it, and serves Flanagan right. I’ve told 
her over and over that Nell wouldn’t stand it long if she 
didn’t ease up a little. Flesh isn’t iron.” 

Again she examined the child carefully, but without 
the slightest sign of feeling. 

“ It’s all the same now who has her,” she said, turning 
off from the settee. “ Take her back to Flanagan.” 

But Pinky would not touch the child, nor could threat 
or persuasion lead her to do so. While they were con- 
tending, Flanagan, who had fired herself up with half 
a pint of whisky, oame storming through the door in a 
blind rage and screaming out, 

“ Where’s my Nell ?• I want my Nell !” 

Catching sight of the child’s inanimate form lying on 
the settee, she pounced down upon it like some foul bird 
and bore it off, cursing and striking the senseless clay in 
her insane fury. 

Pinky, horrified at the dreadful sight, and not sure 
that the child was really dead, and so insensible to pain, 
made a movement to follow, but Norah caught her arm 
with a tight grip and held her back. 


100 


CAST ADEIFT 


“Are you a fool?” said the queen, sternly. “Let 
Flanagan alone. Nell’s out of her reach, and I’m glad 
of it.” 

“ If I was only sure I” exclaimed Pinky. 

“ You may be. I know death — I’ve seen it often enough. 
They’ll have the coroner over there in the morning. It’s 
Flanagan’s concern, not yours or mine, so keep out of it 
if you know when you’re well off.” 

“ I’ll appear against her at the inquest,” said Pinky. 

“ You’ll do no such thing. Keep your tongue behind 
your teeth. It’s time enough to show it when it’s pulled 
out. Take my advice, and mind your own ' business. 
You’ll have enough to do caring for your own head, 
without looking after other people’s.” 

“ I’m not one of that kind,” answered Pinky, a little 
tartly ; “ and if there’s any way to keep Flanagan from 
murdering another child, I’m going to find it out.” 

“ You’ll find out something else first,” said Norah, with 
a slight curl of her Up. 

“What?” 

“ The way to prison.” 

“ Pshaw ! I’m not afraid.” 

“You’d better be. If you appear against Flanagan, 
she’ll have you caged before to-morrow night.” 

“ How can she do it?” 

“ Swear against you before an alderman, and he’ll send 
you down if it’s only to get his fee. She knows her 
man.” 

“ Suppose murder is proved against her ?” 

“Suppose!” Norah gave a little derisive laugh. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


101 


“They don’t look after things in here as they do out- 
side. Everybody’s got the screws on, and things must 
break sometimes, but it isn’t called murder. The coroner 
understands it all. He’s used to seeing things break.” 

9 * 


CHAPTER VII. 


E OR a short time the sounds of cruel exultation came 
over from Flanagan’s ; then all was still. 

“Sal’s put her mark on you,” said Norah, looking 
steadily into Pinky’s face, and laughing in a cold, half- 
amused way. 

Pinky raised her hand to her swollen cheek. “ Does 
it look very bad ?” she asked. 

“ Spoils your beauty some.” 

“ Will it get black ?” 

“ Shouldn’t wonder. But what can’t be helped, can’t. 
You’ll mind your own business next time, and keep out 
of Sal’s way. She’s dangerous. What’s the matter ?” 

“ Got a sort of chill,” replied the girl, who from ner- 
vous reaction was beginning to shiver. 

“ Oh, want something to warm you up.” Horah brought 
out a bottle of spirits. Pinky poured a glass nearly half 
full, added some water, and then drank off the fiery 
mixture. 

“None of your common stuff,” said Norah, with a 
smile, as Pinky smacked her lips. The girl drew her 
handkerchief from her pocket, and as she did so a piece 
of paper dropped on the floor. 

“ Oh, there it is !” she exclaimed, light flashing into her 
102 


CAST ADRIFT. 103 

face. “ Going to make a splendid hit. Just look at them 
rows.” 

Norah threw an indifferent glance on the paper. 

“ They’re lucky, every one of them,” said Pinky. “ Go- 
ing to put half a dollar on each row — sure to make a 
hit.” 

The queen gave one of her peculiar shrugs. 

“ Going to break Sam McFaddon,” continued Pinky, 
her spirits rising under the influence of Norah’s treat. 

“ Soft heads don’t often break hard rocks,” returned 
the woman, with a covert sneer. 

That’s an insult !” cried Pinky, on whom the liquor 
she had just taken was beginning to have a marked effect, 
«and I won’t stand an insult from you or anybody 
else.” 

‘‘Well, I wouldn’t if I was you,” returned Norah, 
coolly. A hard expression began settling about her mouth. 

And I don’t mean to. I’m as good as you are, any 
day !” 

« You may be a great deal better, for all I care,” an- 
swered Norah. “ Only take my advice, and keep a civil 
tongue in your head.” There was a threatening under- 
tone in the woman’s voice. She drew her tall person 
more erect, and shook herself like a wild beast aroused 
from inaction. 

Pinky was too blind to see the change that had come 
so suddenly. A stinging retort fell from her lips. But 
the words had scarcely died on the air ere she found her- 
self in the grip of vice-like hands. Resistance was of no 
more avail than .if .she had been a child. In what seemed 


104 


CAST ADRIFT. 


but a moment of time she was pushed back through the 
door and dropped upon the pavement. Then the door 
shut, and she was alone on the outside — ^no, not alone, for 
scores of the denizens who huddle together in that foul 
region were abroad, and gathered around her as quickly 
as flies about a heap of ofial, curious, insolent and aggres- 
sive. As she arose to her feet she found herself hemmed 
in by a jeering crowd. 

“Ho! it’s Pinky Swett!” cried a girl, pressing toward 
her. “ Hi, Pinky ! what’s the matter ? What’s up ?” 

“ Norah pitched ^er out I I saw it 1” screamed a boy, one 
of the young thieves that harbored in the quarter. 

“ It’s a lie 1” Pinky answered back as she confronted 
the crowd. 

At this moment another boy, who had come up behind 
Pinky, gave her dress so violent a jerk that she fell over 
backward on the pavement, striking her head on a stone 
and cutting it badly. She* lay there, unable to rise, the 
crowd laughing with as much enjoyment as if witnessing 
a dog-fight. 

“ Give her a dose of mud I” shouted one of the boys ; 
and almost as soon as the words \fee out of his mouth, 
her face was covered with a paste of filthy dirt from the 
gutter. This, instead of exciting pity, only gave a keener 
zest to the show. The street rang with shouts and peals 
of merriment, bringing a new and larger crowd to see the 
fun. With them came one or two policemen. 

Seeing that it was only a drunken woman, they pushed 
back the crowd and raised her to her feet. As they did 
so the blood streamed from the back of her head and 


CAST ADRIFT. 105 

stained her dress to the waist. She was taken to the 
nearest station-house. 

At eleven o’clock on the next morning, punctual to the 
minute, came Mrs. Dinneford to the little third-story room 
in which she had met Mrs. Bray. She tepeated her rap 
at the door before it was opened, and noticed that a key 
was turned in the lock. 

“ You have seen the woman?” she said as she took an 
offered seat, coming at once to the object of her visit. 

“Yes.” 

“Well?” 

“ I gave her the money.” 

“Well?” 

Mrs. Bray shook her head : 

“Afraid I can’t do much with her.” 

“Why?” an anxious expression coming into Mrs, 
Dinneford’s face. 

“These people suspect everybody; there is no honor 
nor truth in them, and they judge everyone by them- 
selves. She half accused me of getting a larger amount 
of money from you, and putting her off with the paltry 
sum of thirty dollars.” 

Mrs. Bray looked exceedingly hurt and annoyed. 

“ Threatened,” she went on, “ to go to you herself* - 
didn’t want any go-betweens nor brokers. I expected to,- 
hear you say that she’d been at your house this morning.” 

“Good Gracious! no!” Mrs. Dinneford’s face was 
almost distorted with alarm. 

“ It’s the w^ay with all these people,” coolly remarked 
Mrs. Bray. “ You’re never safe with them.” 


106 


CAST ADRIFT. 


Did you hint at her leaving the city ? — agoing to New 
Orleans, for instance ?” 

“ Oh dear, no ! She isn’t to be managed in that way — 
is deeper and more set than I thought. The fact is, Mrs. 
Dinneford” — and Mrs. Bray- lowered her voice and looked 
shocked and mysterious — ‘‘ I’m beginning to suspect her 
as being connected with a gang.” 

“ With a gang ? What kind of a gang ?” Mrs. Din- 
neford turned slightly pale. 

“A gang of thieves. She isn’t the right thing; I 
found that out long ago. You remember what I said 
when you gave her the child. I told you that she was 
not a good woman, and that it was a cruel thing to put a 
helpless, new-born baby into her hands.” 

Never mind about that.” Mrs. Dinneford waved her 
hand impatiently. “ The baby’s out of her hands, so far 
as that is concerned. A gang of thieves !” 

“ Yes, I’m ’most sure of it. Goes to people’s houses on 
one excuse and another, and finds out where the silver is 
kept and how to get in. You don’t know half the wicked- 
ness that’s going on. So you see it’s no use trying to get 
her away.” 

Mrs. Bray was watching the face of her visitor with 
covert scrutiny, gauging, as she did so, by its weak 
alarms, the measure of her power over her. 

“ Dreadful! dreadful!” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, with 
dismay. 

« It’s bad enough,” said Mrs. Bray, “ and I don’t see 
the end of it. She’s got you in her power, and no mis- 
take, and she isn’t one of the kind to give up so splendid 


CAST ALBIFT 107 

an advantage. I’m only surprised that she’s kept away 
so long.” 

“ What’s to he done about it ?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, 
her alarm and distress increasing. 

“ Ah ! that’s more than I can tell,” coolly returned 
Mrs. Bray. “ One thing is certain — I don’t want to have 
anything more to do with her.- It isn’t safe to let her 
come here. You’ll have to manage her yourself.” 

« No, no, no, Mrs. Bray ! You mustn’t desert me !” 
answered Mrs. Dinneford, her face growing pallid with 
fear. “ Money is of no account. I’ll pay ’most anything, 
reasonable or unreasonable, to have her kept away.” 

And she drew out her pocket-book while speaking. At 
this moment there came two distinct raps on the door. 
It had been locked after Mrs. Dinneford ’s entrance. Mrs. 
Bray started and changed countenance, turning her face 
quickly from observation. But she was self-possessed in 
an instant. Rising, she said in a whisper, 

“ Go silently into the next room, and remain perfectly 
still. I believe that’s the woman now. I’ll manage her 
as best I can.” 

Almost as quick as thought, Mrs. Dinneford vanished 
through a door that led into an adjoining room, and clos- 
ing it noiselessly, turned a key that stood in the lock, 
then sat down, trembling with nervous alarm. The room 
in which she found herself was small, and overlooked the 
street ; it was scantily furnished as a bed-room. In one 
corner, partly hid by a curtain that hung from a hoop 
fastened to the wall, was an old wooden chest, such as are 
used by sailors. Under the bed, and pushed as far back 


108 


CAST ADRIFT. 


as possible, was another of the same kind. The air of the 
room was close, and she noticed the stale smell of a cigar. 

A murmur of voices from the room she had left so 
hastily soon reached her ears ; hut though she listened in- 
tently, standing close to the door, she was not able to dis- 
tinguish a word. Once or twice she was sure that she 
heard the sound of a man’s voice. It was nearly a quar- 
ter of an hour by her watch — ^it seemed two hours — ^be- 
fore Mrs. Bray’s visitor or visitors retired; then there 
came a light rap on the door. She opened it, and stood 
face to face again with the dark-eyed little woman. 

“ You kept me here a long time,” said Mrs. Dinneford, 
with ill-concealed impatience. 

“No longer than I could help,” replied Mrs. Bray. 
“Affairs of this kind are not settled in a minute.” 

“ Then it was that miserable woman ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, what did you make out of her?” 

“ Not much ; she’s too greedy. The taste of blood has 
sharpened her appetite.” 

“ What does she want ?” 

“ She wants two hundred dollars paid into her hand to- 
day, and says that if the mctaey isn’t here by sundown, 
you’ll have a visit from her in less than an hour after- 
ward.” 

“ Will that be the end of it ?” 

A sinister smile curved Mrs. Bray’s lips slightly. 

“ More than I can say,” she answered. 

“ Two hundred dollars ?” 

“ Yes. She put the amount higher, but I told her she’d 


CAST ADRIFT. 


109 


better not go for too big a slice or she might get nothing — 
that there was such a thing as setting the police after her. 
She laughed at this in such a wicked, sneering way that 
I felt my flesh creep, and said she knew the police, and 
some of their masters, too, and wasn’t afraid of them. 
She’s a dreadful woman and Mrs. Bray shivered in a 
very natural manner. 

“ If I thought this would be the last of it !” said Mrs. 
Dinneford as she moved about the room in a disturbed 
way, and with an anxious look on her face. 

“Perhaps,” suggested her companion, “it would be 
best for you to grapple with this thing at the outset — to 
take our vampire by the throat and strjihgle her at once. 
The knife is the only remedy for some forms of disease. 
If left to grow and prey upon the body, they gradually 
suck away its life and destroy it in the end.” 

“ If I only knew how to do it,” replied Mrs. Dinneford. 
“ If I could only get her in my power, I’d make short 
work of her.” Her eyes flashed with a cruel light. 

“ It might be done.” 

“How?” 

“Mr. Dinneford knows the chief of police.” 

The light went out of Mrs. Dinneford’s eyes : 

“ It cai^t be done in that way, and you know it as well 
as I do.” 

Mrs. Dinneford turned upon Mrs. Bray sharply, and 
with a gleam of suspicion in her face. 

“ I don’t know any other way, unless you go to the 
chief yourself,” replied Mrs. Bray, coolly. “ There is no 
protection in cases like this except through the law. 

10 


110 


CAST ADRIFT. 


Without police interference, you are wholly in this woman’s 
power.” 

Mrs. Dinneford grew very pale. 

“ It is always dangerous,” went on Mrs. Bray, “ to have 
anything to do with people of this class. A woman w^ho 
for hire will take a new-born baby and sell it to a beggar- 
woman will not stop at anything. It is very unfortunate 
that you are mixed up with her.” 

“I’m indebted to you for the trouble,” replied Mrs. 
Dinneford, with considerable asperity of manner. “ You 
ought to have known something about the woman before 
employing her in a delicate affair of this kind.” 

“Saints don’t hire themselves to put. away new-born 
babies,” retorted Mrs. Bray, with an ugly gurgle in her 
throat. “ I told you at the time that she was a bad 
woman, and have not forgotten your answer.” 

“ What did I answer ?” 

“ That she might be the devil for all you cared !” 

“ You are mistaken.” 

“ No ; I repeat your very words. They surprised and 
shocked me at the time, and I have not forgotten them. 
People who deal with the devil usually have the devil 
to pay; and your case, it seems, is not to be an excep- 
tion.” # 

Mrs. Bray had assumed an air of entire equality with 
her visitor. 

A long silence followed, during which Mrs. Dinneford 
walked the floor with the quick, restless motions of a 
caged animal. 

“How long do you think two hundred dollars will 


CAST ADRIFT. Ill 

satisfy her T she asked, at length, pausing and turning to 
her companion. 

“ It is impossible for me to say,” was answered ; “ not 
long, unless you can manage to frighten her olf; you 
must threaten hard.” 

Another silence followed. 

“ I did not expect to be called on for so large a sum,” 
Mrs. Dinneford said, at length, in a husky voice, taking 
out her pocket-book as she spoke. “ I have only a hun- 
dred- dollars with me. Give her that, and put her off 
until to-morrow.” 

“ I will do the best I can with her,” replied Mrs. Bray, 
reaching out her hand for the money, “ but I think it will 
be safer for you to let me have the balance to-day. She 
will, most likely, take it into her head that I have re- 
ceived the whole sum from you, and think I am trying to 
cheat her. In that case she will be as good as her word, 
and come down on you.” 

“Mrs. Bray!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, suspicion 
blazing from her eyes. “ Mrs. Bray 1” — and she turned 
upon her and caught her by the arms with a fierce grip — 
“ as I live, you are deceiving me. There is no woman but 
yourself. You are the vampire 1” 

She held the unresisting little woman in her vigorous 
grasp for some moments, gazing at her in stern and angry 
accusation. 

Mrs. Bray stood very quiet and with scarcely a change 
of countenance until this outburst of passion had sub- 
sided. She was still holding the money she had taken 
from Mrs. Dinneford. As the latter released her she 


112 


CAST ADEIFT. 


extended her hand, saying, in a low resolute voice, in 
which not the faintest thrill of anger could be detected, 

“ Take your money.” She waited for a moment, and 
then let the little roll of bank-bills fall at Mrs. Dinne- 
ford’s feet and turned away. 

Mrs. Dinneford had made a mistake, and she saw it — 
saw that she was now more than ever in the power of this 
woman, whether she was true or false. If false, more 
fatally in her power. 

At this dead-lock in the interview between these women 
there came a diversion. The sound of feet was heard on 
the stairs, then a hurrying along the narrow passage ; a 
hand was on the door, but the key had been prudently 
turned on the inside. 

With a quick motion Mrs. Bray waved her hand toward 
the adjoining chamber. Mrs. Dinneford did not hesitate, 
but glided in noiselessly, shutting and locking the door 
behind her. 

“ Pinky Swett !” exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a low voice, 
putting her finger to her lips, as she admitted her visitor, 
at the same time giving a warning glance toward the 
other room. Eyeing her from head to foot, she added, 
“ Well, you are an object I” 

Pinky had drawn aside a close veil, exhibiting a bruised 
and swollen face. A dark band lay under one of her 
eyes, and there was a cut with red, angry margins on the 
cheek. 

‘‘You are an object,” repeated Mrs. Bray as Pinky 
moved forward into the room. 

“Well, I am, and no mistake,” answered Pinky, with 


CAST ADBIFT. 


113 


a light laugh. She had been drinking enough to ovei^ 
come the depression and discomfort of her feelings conse- 
quent on the hard usage she had received and a night in 
one of the city station-houses. “ Who’s in there ?” 

Mrs. Bray’s finger went again to her lips. “ No matter,” 
was replied. You must go away until the coast is clear. 
Come back in half an hour.” 

And she hurried Pinky out of the door, locking it as 
the girl retired. When Mrs. Dinneford came out of the 
room into which she had gone so hastily, the roll of bank- 
notes still lay upon the floor. Mrs. Bray had prudently 
slipped them into her pocket before admitting Pinky, but 
as soon as she was alone had thrown them down again. 

The face of Mrs. Dinneford was pale, and exhibited no 
ordinary signs of discomfiture and anxiety. 

“ Who was that ?” she asked. 

A friend,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a cold, self-possessed 
manner. 

A few moments of embarrassed silence followed. Mrs. 
Bray crossed the room, touching with her foot the bank- 
bills, as if they were of no account to her. 

« I am half beside myself,” said Mrs. Dinneford. 

Mrs. Bray made no response, did not even turn toward 
her visitor. 

“ I spoke hastily.” 

A vampire !” Mrs. Bray swept round upon her fiercely. 
<‘A blood-sucker!” and she ground her teeth in well- 
feigned passion. ■ 

Mrs. Dinneford sat down trembling. 

“ Take your money and go,” said Mrs. Bray, and she 
10* H 


114 


CAST ADRIFT. 


^lifted tlie bills from the floor and tossed them into her 
visitor’s lap. “ I am served right. It was evil work^ and 
good never comes of evil.” 

But Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. To go away at enmity 
with this woman was, so far as she could see, to meet ex- 
posure and unutterable disgrace. Anything but that. 

“ I shall leave this money, trusting still to your good 
oflices,” she said, at length, rising. Her manner was 
much subdued. “ I spoke hastily, in a sort of blind des- 
peration. We should not weigh too carefully the words 
that are extorted by pain or fear. In less than an hour 
I will send you a hundred dollars more.” 

Mrs. Dinneford laid the bank-bills on a table, and then 
moved to the door, but she dared not leave in this un- 
certainty. Looking back, she said, with an appealing 
humility of voice and manner foreign to her character, 

“Let us be friends still, Mrs. Bray; we shall gain 
nothing by being enemies. I can serve you, and you can 
serve me. My suspicions were ill founded. I felt wild 
and desperate, and hardly knew what I was saying.” 

She stood anxiously regarding the little dark-eyed 
woman, who did not respond by word or movement. 

Taking her hand from the door she was about opening, 
Mrs. Dinneford came back into the room, and stood close 
to Mrs. Bray ; 

“ Shall I send you the money ?” 

“ You can do as you please,” was replied, with chilling 
indifierence. 

“ Are you implacable ?” 

“ I am not used to suspicion, much less denunciation 


CAST ADRIFT, 115 

and assault. A vampire I Do you know what that 
means T 

It meant, as used by me, only madness. I did not 
know what I was saying. It was a cry of pain — nothing 
more. Consider how I stand, hqjsr much I have at stake, 
in what a wretched affair I have become involved. It is 
all new to me, and I am bewildered and at fault. Do not 
desert me in this crisis. I must have some one to stand 
between me and this woman ; and if you step aside, to 
whom can I go 

Mrs. Bray relented just a little. Mrs. Dinneford 
pleaded and humiliated herself, and drifted farther into 
the toils of her confederate. 

‘‘You are not rich, Mrs. Bray,” she said, at parting, 
“independent in spirit as you are. I shall add a 
hundred dollars for your own use ; and if ever you stand 
in need, you will know where to find an unfailing friend.” 

Mrs. Bray put up her hands, and replied, “ No, no, 
no ; don’t think of such a thing. I am not mercenary. 
I never serve a friend for money.” 

But Mrs. Dinneford heard the “yes” which flushed 
into the voice that said “ no.” She was not deceived. 

A rapid change passed over Mrs. Bray on the instant 
her visitor left the room. Her first act was to lock the 
door; her next, to take the roll of bank-bills from the 
table and put it into her pocket. Over her face a 
gleam of evil satisfaction had swept. 

“ Got you all right now, my lady !” fell with a chuckle 
from her lips. “A vampire, ha!” The chuckle was 
changed for a kind of hiss. “Well, have it so. There 


116 


CAST ADBIFT. 


is rich blood in your veins, and it will be no fault of mine 
if I do not fatten upon it. As for pity, you shall have as 
much of it as you gave to that helpless baby. Saints 
don’t work in this kind of business, and I’m not a saint.” 

And she chuckled and hissed and muttered to herself, 
with many signs of evil satisfaction. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


F or an hour Mrs. Bray waited the reappearance of 
Pinky Swett, but the girl did not come back. At 
the end of this time a package which had been left at 
the door was brought to her room. It came from Mrs. 
Dinneford, and contained two hundred dollars. A note 
that accompanied the package read as follows : 

« Forgive my little fault of temper. It is your interest 
to be my friend. The woman must not, on any account, 
be suffered to come near me.” 

Of course there was no signature. Mrs. Bray’s coun- 
tenance was radiant as she fingered the money. 

“ Good luck for me, but bad for the baby,” she said, in 
a low, pleased murmur, talking to herself. “ Poor baby I 
I must see better to its comfort. It deserves to be looked 
after. I wonder why Pinky doesn’t come ?” 

Mrs. Bray listened, but no sound of feet from the stairs 
or entries, no opening or shutting of doors, broke the si- 
lence that reigned through the house. 

“Pinky’s getting too low down — drinks too much; 
can’t count on her any more.” Mrs. Bray went on talking 
to herself. “ No rest ; no quiet ; never satisfied ; for ever 
knocking round, and for ever getting the worst of it. She 
was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her. But 
she doesn’t take any care of herself.” 

117 

¥ 


118 


CAST ADRIFT. 


As Pinky went^ut, an hour before, sbe met a fresb- 
looking girl, not over seventeen, and evidently from tbe 
country. Sbe was standing on tbe pavement, not far 
from tbe bouse in wbicb Mrs. Bray lived, and bad a 
traveling-bag in ber band. Her perplexed face and un- 
certain manner attracted Pinky’s attention. 

‘‘Are you looking for anybody?” sbe asked. 

“ I’m trying to find a Mrs. Bray,” tbe girl answered. 
“ I’m a stranger from tbe country.” 

“Ob, you are?” said Pinky, drawing ber veil more 
tightly, so that ber disfigured face could not be seen. 

“ Yes ; I’m from L .” 

“ Indeed ? J used to know some people there.” 

“ Then you’ve been in L ?” said tbe girl, with a 

pleased, trustful manner, as of one who bad met a friend 
at tbe right time. 

“Yes, I’ve visited there.” 

“ Indeed ? Who did you know in L ?” 

“Are you acquainted with the Cartwrights?” 

“ I know of them. They are among our first people,” 
returned tbe girl. 

“ I spent a week in their family a few years ago, and 
bad a very pleasant time,” said Pinky. 

“ Oh, I’m glad to know that,” remarked tbe girl. “ I’m 
a stranger here ; and if I can’t find Mrs. Bray, I don’t see 
what I am to do. A lady from here who was staying at 
tbe hotel gave me a letter to Mrs. Bray. I was living at 
tbe hotel, but I didn’t like it ; it was too public. I told 
the lady that I wanted to learn a trade or get into a store, 
and sbe said tbe city was just tbe place for me, and that 


CAST ADRIFT. 


119 


slie would give me a letter to a particular friend, wlio 
would, on her recommendation, interest herself for me. 
It’s somewhere along here that she lived, I’m sure and 
she took a letter from her pocket and examined the 
direction. 

The girl was fresh and young and pretty, and had an 
artless, confiding manner. It was plain she knew little 
of the world, and nothing of its evils and dangers. 

“ Let me see and Pinky reached out her hand for the 
letter. She put it under her veil, and read, 

“Mrs. Fanny Bray, 

“ No. 631 street, 

« . . .■■■. 

« By the hand of Miss Flora Bond.” 

« Flora Bond,” said Pinky, in a kind, familiar tone. 

“ Yes, that is my name,” replied the girl ; “ isn’t this 
* street ?” 

Yes ; and there is the number you are looking for.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! I’m so glad to find the place. I was 
beginning to feel scared.” 

« I will ring the bell for you,” ^aid Pinky, going to the 
door of No. 631. A servant answered the summons. 

“Is Mrs. Bray at home?’' inquired Pinky. 

“ I don’t know,” replied the servant, looking annoyed. 
“ Her rooms are in the third story and she held the 
door wide open for them to enter. As they passed into 
the hall Pinky said to her companion, 

“ Just wait here a moment, and I will run up stairs and 
see if she is in.” 


120 


CAST ADEIFT. 


The girl stood in the hall until Pinky came back. 

“ Not at home, I’m sorry to say.” 

“ Oh dear ! that’s bad ; what shall I do ?” and the girl 
looked distressed. 

“ She’ll be back soon, no doubt,” said Pinky, in a light, 
assuring voice. “ I’ll go arOund with you a little and see 
things.” 

The girl looked down at her traveling-bag. 

‘<Oh, that’s nothing; I’ll help you to carry it;” and 
Pinky took it from her hand. 

“ Couldn’t we leave it here ?” asked Flora. 

“ It might not be safe ; servants are not always to be 
trusted, and Mrs. Bray’s rooms are locked ; we can easily 
carry it between us. I’m strong — got good country 
blood in my veins. You see I’m from the country as well 
as you ; right glad we met. Don’t know what you would 
have done.” 

And she drew the girl out, talking familiarly, as they 
went. 

“ Haven’t had your dinner yet ?” 

« No ; just arrived in the cars, and came right here.” 

“You must have something to eat, then. I know a 
nice place ; often get dinner there when I’m out.” 

The girl did not feel wholly at ease. She had not yet 
been able to get sight of Pinky’s closely-veiled features, 
and there was something in her voice that made her 
feel uncomfortable. 

“I don’t care for any dinner,” she said; “I’m not 
hungry.’' 

“ Well^ I am, then ; so come. Do you like oysters ?” 


CAST ADRIFT 


121 


“Yes.” 

“ Cook them splendidly. Best place in the city. And 
you’d like to get into a store or learn a trade ?” 

■ “Yes.” 

“ What trade did you think of?” 

“?^one in particular.” 

“ How would you like to get into a hook-bindery ? I 
know two or three girls in binderies, and they can make 
from five to ten dollars a week. It’s the nicest, cleanest 
work I know of.” 

“ Oh, do you ?” returned Flora, with newly-awakening 
interest. 

“ Yes ; we’ll talk it all over while we’re eating dinner. 
This way.” 

And Pinky turned the corner of a small street that 
led away from the more crowded thoroughfare along 
which they had been passing. 

“ It’s a quiet and retired place, where only the nicest 
kind of people go,” she added, “Many working-girls 
and girls in stores get their dinners there. We’ll meet 
some of them, no doubt ; and if any that I know should 
happen in, we might hear of a good place. Just the 
thing, isn’t it ? I’m right glad I met you.” 

They had gone halfway down the square, when Pinky 
stopped before the shop of a confectioner. In the win- 
dow was a display of cakes, pies and candies, and a sign 
with the words, “ Ladies’ Kestaurant.” 

“This is the place,” she said, and opening the door, 
passed in, the young stranger following. 

A sign of caution, unseen by Flora, was made to a 
11 


122 


CAST ADRIFT. 


girl who stood behind the counter. Then Pinky turned, 
saying, 

“How will you have your oysters? stewed, fried, 
broiled or roasted ?” 

“ I’m not particular— any way,” replied Flora. 

“I like them fried. Will you have them the same 
way ?” 

Flora nodded assent. 

“ Let them be fried, then. Come, we’ll go up stairs. 
Anybody there ?” 

“ Two or three only.” 

“ Any girls from the bindery ?” 

“ Yes ; I think so.” 

“ Oh, I’m glad of that ! Want to see some of them. 
Come, Miss Bond.” 

And Pinky, after a whispered word to the attendant, 
led the way to a room up stairs in which were a number 
of small tables. At one of these were two girls eating, 
at another a girl sitting by herself, and at another a 
young man and a girl. As Pinky and her companion 
entered, the inmates of the room stared at them famil- 
iarly, and then winked and leered at each other. Flora 
did not observe this, but she felt a sudden oppression and 
fear. They sat down at a table not far from one of the 
windows. Flora looked for the veil to be removed, so 
that she might see the face of her new friend. But 
Pinky kept it closely down. 

In about ten minutes the oysters were served. Accom- 
panying them were two glasses of some‘s kind of liquor. 
Floating on one of these was a small bit of cork. Pinky 


CAST ADRIFT. 


123 


took this and handed the other to her companion, say- 
ing, 

“ Only a weak sangaree. It will refresh you after your 
fatigue; and I always like something with oysters, it 
helps to make them lay lighter on the stomach.” 

Meantime, one of the girls had crossed over and spoken 
to Pinky. After a word or two, the latter said. 

Don’t you work in a bindery. Miss Peter ?” 

“ Yes,” was answered, without hesitation. 

I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, 
Miss Flora Bond. She’s from the country, and wants to 
get into some good establishment. She talked about a 
store, but I think a bindery is better.” 

“A great deal better,” was replied by Miss Peter. 
“ I’ve tried them both, and wouldn’t go back to a store 
again on any account. If I can serve your friend, I shall 
be most happy.” 

“ Thank you !” returned Flora ; “ you are very kind.” 

Not at all; I’m always glad when I can be of service 
to any one. You think you’d like to go into a bindery?” 

“ Yes. I’ve come to the city to get employment, and 
haven’t much choice.” 

There’s no place like the city,” remarked the other. 
“ I’d die in the country — nothing going on. But you 
won’t stagnate here. When did you arrive ?” 

To-day.” 

“ Have you friends here ?” 

“ No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who 
resides in the city.” 

« What’s her name ?” 


124 


CAST ADRIFT. 


« Mrs. Bray.” 

Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see 
her face. It was plain from its expression that she knew 
Mrs. Bray. 

Have you seen ner yet ?” she asked. 

“ No. She was out when I called. I’m going back in 
a little while.” ! 

The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others 
were eating. Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree 
before she was half through with her oysters, and kept 
urging Flora to drink. 

“ Don’t be afraid of it, dear,” she said, in a kind, per- 
suasive way; “there’s hardly a thimbleful of wine in 
the whole glass. It will soothe your nerves, and make 
you feel ever so much better.” 

There was something in the taste of the sangaree that 
Flora did not like — a flavor that was not of wine. But 
urged repeatedly by her companion, whose empty glass 
gave her encouragement and confidence, she sipped and 
drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this time 
she was beginning to have a sense of fullness and con- 
fusion in the head, and to feel oppressed and uncomfort- 
able. Her appetite suddenly left her, and she laid down 
her knife and fork and leaned her head upon her hand. 

“ What’s the matter ?” asked Pinky. 

“ Nothing,” answered the girl ; “ only my head feels a 
little strangely. It will pass off in a moment.” 

“ Biding in the cars, maybe,” said Pinky. “ I always 
feel bad after being in the cars ; it kind of stirs me up.” 

Flora sat wery quietly at the table, still resting her head 


CAST ADRIFT. 


125 


upon her hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined 
them exchanged looks of intelligence. The former had 
drawn her veil partly aside, yet concealing as much as 
possible the bruises on her face. 

“ My ! hut you’re battered !” exclaimed Miss Peter, in 
a whisper that was unheard by Flora. 

Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to 
Flora, with well-affected concern, 

“ I’m afraid you are ill, dear ? How do you feel ?” 

“ I don’t know,” answered the poor girl, in a voice that 
betrayed great anxiety, if not alarm. It came over me 
all at once. I’m afraid that wine was too strong ; I am 
not used to taking anything.” 

“ Oh dear, no ! it wasn’t that. I drank a glass, and 
don’t feel it any more than if it had been water.” 

« Let’s go,” said Flora, starting up. “ Mrs. Bray must 
be home by this time.” 

« All right, if you feel well enough,” returned Pinky, 
rising at the same time. 

“Oh dearl how my head swims!” exclaimed Flora, 
putting both hands to her temples. She stood for a few 
moments in an uncertain attitude, then reached out in a 
blind, eager way. 

Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about 
her waist. 

“ Come,” she said, “ the air is too close for you here 
and with the assistance of the girl who had joined them, 
she steadied Flora down stairs. 

“Doctored a little too high,” whispered Miss Peter, 
with her mouth close to Pinky’s ear. 


126 


CAST ADRIFT, 


‘‘ All right,’’ Pinky whispered back ; “ they know how 
to do it.” 

At the foot of the stairs Pinky said, 

“ You take her out through the yard, while I pay for 
the oysters. I’ll be with you in a moment.” 

Poor Flora was already too much confused by the 
drugged liquor she had taken to know what they were 
doing with her. 

Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor. Pinky was 
on hand in a few moments. From the back door of 
the house they entered a small yard, and passed from 
this through a gate into a narrow private alley shut in 
on each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a con- 
siderable' distance, and had many gates opening into it 
from yards, hovels and rear buildings, all of the most 
forlorn and wretched character. It terminated in a 
small street. 

Aloqg this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at 
the restaurant supported Flora, who was fast losing 
strength and consciousness. When halfway down, they 
held a brief consultation. 

“It won’t do,” said Pinky, “to take her through to 

street. She’s too far gone, and the police will be 

down on us and carry her off.” 

“ Norah’s got some place in there,” said the other, point- 
ing to an old wooden building close by. 

“I’m out with Norah,” replied Pinky, “ and don’t mean 
to have anything more to do with her.” 

“ Where’s your room ?” 

“ That isn’t the go. Don’t want her there. Pat Ma- 


CAST ADBIFT. 


127 


ley's cellar is just over yonder. We can get in from the 
alley.” 

“Pat’s too greedy a devil. There wouldn’t be any- 
thing left of her when he got through. No, no. Pinky ; 
I’ll have nothing to do with it if she’s to go into Pat 
Maley’s cellar.” 

“ Not much to choose between ’em,” answered Pinky. 
“But it won’t do to parley here. We must get her in 
somewhere.” 

And she pushed open a gate as she spoke. It swung 
back on one hinge and struck the fence with a bang, 
disclosing a yard that beggared description in its disor- 
der and filth. In the back part of this yard was a one- 
and-a-half-story frame building, without windows, look- 
ing more like an old chicken-house or pig-stye than a 
;^lace for human beings to live in. The loft over the 
first story was reached by a ladder on the outside. Above 
and below the hovel was laid off in kind of stalls or 
bunks furnished with straw. There were about twenty 
of these. It was a ten-cent lodging-house, filled nightly. 
If this wretched., hut or stye — call it what you will — had 
been, torn down, it would not have brought ten dollars as 
kindling-wood. Yet its owner, a gentleman (?) living 
handsomely up town, received for it the a]gnual rent of 
two hundred and fifty dollars. Subletted at an average 
of two dollars a night, it gave an income of nearly seven 
hundred dollars a year. It was known as the “ Hawk’s 
Nest,” and no bird of prey ever had a fouler nest than 
this. 

As the gate banged on the fence a coarse, evil-looking 


128 


CAST ADRIFT 


man, wearing a dirty Scotch cap and a red shirt, pushed 
his head up from the cellar of the house that fronted on 
the street. 

“ What’s wanted ?” he asked, in a kind of growl, his 
upper lip twitching and drawing up at one side in a ner- 
vous way, letting his. teeth appear. 

We want to get this girl in for a little while,” said 
Pinky. “We’ll take her away when she comes round. 
Is anybody in there ?” and she pointed to the hovel. 

The man shook his head. 

“ How much ?” asked Pinky. 

“ Ten cents apiece and he held out bis hand. 

Pinky gave him thirty cents. He took a key from his 
pocket, and opened the door that led into the lower room. 
The stench that came out as the door swung back was 
dreadful. But poor Flora Bond was by this time so 
relaxed in every muscle, and so dead to outward things, 
that it was impossible to get her any farther. So they 
bore her into this horrible den, and laid her down in one 
of the stalls on a bed of loose straw. Inside,, there was 
nothing but these stalls and straw — not a table or chair, 
or any article of furniture. They filled up nearly the 
entire room, leaving only a narrow passage between them. 
The only means of ventilation was by the door. 

As soon as Pinky and her companion in this terrible 
wickedness were alone with their victim, they searched 
her pocket for the key of her traveling-bag. On finding 
it. Pinky was going to open it, when the other said, 

“ Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage 
in a safer place. Let’s go for the movables.” 


CAST ABBIFT. 


129 


And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person 
of Flora, slipping out the ear-rings first, then removing 
her breast-pin and finger-rings, while Pinky unbuttoned 
the new gaiter boots, and drew ofi* both boots and stock- 
ings, leaving upon the damp straw the small, bare feet, 
pink and soft almost as a baby’s. 

It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess 
themselves of everything but the poor girl’s dress and 
undergarments. Cloth oversack, pocket-book, collar, linen 
cufis, hat, shoes and stockings — all these were taken. 

“ Hallo !” cried the keeper of this foul den as the two 
girls hurried out with the traveling-bag and a large bun- 
dle sooner than he had expected ; and he came quickly 
forth from the cellar in which he lived like a cruel spider 
and tried to intercept them, but they glided through the 
gate and were out of his reach before he could get near. 
He could follow them only with obscene invectives and 
horrible oaths. Well he knew what had been done — that 
there had been a robbery in the << Hawk’s Nest,” and he 
not in to share the booty. 

Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every 
instinct of humanity had long since died — this human 
beast, who looked on innocence and helplessness as a wolf 
looks upon, a lamb — strode across the yard and entered the 
den. Lying in one of the stalls upon the foul, damp 
straw he found Flora Bond. Cruel beast that he was, 
even he felt, himself held back as by an ii^ visible hand, 
as he looked at the pure face of the insensible girl. 
Rarely had his eyes rested on a countenance so full of 
innocence. But the. wolf has no pity for the lamb, nor 

I 


130 


CAST ADRIFT. 


tlie hawk for the dove. The instinct of his nature quickly 
asserted itself. 

Avarice first. From the face his eyes turned to see 
what had been left by the two girls. An angry impreca- 
tion fell from his lips w^hen he saw how little remained 
for him. But when he lifted Flora’s head and unbound 
her hair, a gleam of pleasure came into his foul face. It 
was a full suit of rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet 
long, and fell in thick masses over her breast and shoul- 
ders. He caught it up eagerly, drew it through his great 
ugly hands, and gloated over it with something of a 
miser’s pleasure as he counts his gold. Then taking a 
pair of scissors from his pocket, he ran them over the 
girl’s head with the quickness and skill of a barber, cut- 
ting close down, that he might not lose even the sixteenth 
part of an inch of her rich tresses. An Indian scalping 
his victim could not have shown more eagerness. An In- 
dian’s wild pleasure w?vS in his face as he lifted the heavy 
mass of brown hair and held it above his head. It was 
not a trophy — not a sign of conquest and triumph over an 
enemy — ^but simply plunder, and had a market value of 
fifteen or twenty dollars. 

The dress was next examined ; it was new, but not of a 
costly material. Removing this, the man went out with 
his portion of the spoils, and locked the door, leaving the 
half-clothed, unconscious girl lying on the damp, filthy 
straw, that swarme4 with vermin. It was cold as well as 
damp, and the chill of a bleak November day began 
creeping into her warm blood. But the stupefying draught 
had been well compounded, and held her senses locked. 



THK WOl.F AM) THK LAIMP.. page l:W. 




>1 




p 



<1 


I 










« 


4 


CAST ADBIFT. 


131 


Of what followed we cannot write, and we shiver as 
we draw a veil over scenes that should make the heart of 
all Christendom ache — scenes that are repeated in thou- 
sands of instances year by year in our large cities, and 
no hand is stretched forth to succor and no arm to save. 
Under the very eyes of the courts and the churches 
things worse than we have described — worse than the 
reader can imagine — are done every day. The foul dens 
into which crime goes freely, and into which innocence is 
■ betrayed, are known to the police, and the evil work that 
is done is ever before them. From one victim to another 
their keepers pass unquestioned, and plunder, debauch, 
ruin and murder with an impunity frightful to contem- 
plate. As was said by a distinguished author, speaking 
of a kindred social enormity, “ There is not a country 
throughout the earth on which a state of things like this 
would not bring a curse. There is no religion upon 
earth that it would not deny ; there is no people on earth 
that it would not put to shame.” 

And we are Christians ! 

No. Of what followed we cannot write. Those who 
were near the “ Hawk’s Nest ” heard that evening, soon 
after nightfall, the single' wild, prolonged cry of a woman. 
It was so full of terror and despair that even the hard- 
ened ears that heard it felt a sudden pain. But they 
were used to such things in that region, and no one took 
the trouble to learn what it meant. Even the policeman 
moving on his beat stood listening for only a moment, and 
then passed on. 


132 


CAST ADRIFT. 


Next day, in the local columns of a city paper, appeared 
the following : 

“Foul Play. — ^About eleven o’clock last night the 
body of a beautiful young girl, who could not have been 
over seventeen years of age, was discovered lying on the 

pavement in street. No one knew how she came 

there. She was quite dead when found. There was noth- 
ing by which she could be identified. All her clothes 
but a single undergarment had been removed, and her 
hair cut oflT close to her head. There were marks of 
brutal violence on her person. The body was placed in 
charge of the coroner, who will investigate the matter.” 

On the day after, this paragraph appeared : 

“Suspicion of Foul Play. — The coroner’s inquest 
elicited nothing in regard to the young girl mentioned 
yesterday as having been found dead and stripped of 

her clothing in street. No one was able to identify 

her. A foul deed at which the heart shudders has been 
done ; but the wretches by whom it was committed have 
been able to cover their tracks.” 

And that was the last of it. The whole nation gives 
a shudder of fear a t the announcement of an Indian mas- 
sacre and outrage.^ But in all our large cities are sav- 
ages more cruel and brutal in their instincts than the 
Comanches, and they torture and outrage and murder a 
hundred poor victims for every one that is exposed to 
Indian brutality, and there comes no succor. Is it from 
ignorance of the fact? No, no, no! There is not a 
judge on the bench, not a lawyer at the bar, not a legis- 
lator at the State capital, not a mayor or police-officer. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


133 


not a minister who preaches the gospel of Christ, who 
came to seek and to save, not an intelligent citizen, but 
knows of all this. 

What then ? Who is responsible ? The whole nation 
arouses itself at news of an Indian- assault upon some 
defenceless frontier settlement, and the general govern- 
ment sends troops to succor and to punish. But who 
takes note of the worse than Indian massacres going on 
daily and nightly in the heart of our great cities ? Who 
hunts down and punishes the human wolves in our midst 
whose mouths are red with the blood of innocence ? 
Their deeds of cruelty outnumber every year a hundred 
—nay, a thousand — fold the deeds of our red savages. 
Their haunts are known, and their jvork is known. 
They lie in wait for the unwary, they gather in the price 
of human souls, none hindering, at our very church 
doors. Is no one responsible for all this ? Is there no 
help? Is evil stronger than good, hell stronger than 
heaven? Have the churches nothing to do in- this mat- 
ter ? Christ came to seek and to save that which was 
lost — came to the lowliest, the poorest and the vilest, 
to those over whom devils had gained power, and cast out 
the devils. Are those who call themselves by his name 
diligent in the work to which he put his blessed hands ? 
Millions of dollars go yearly into magnificent churches, 
but how little to the work of saving and succoring the 
weak, the helpless, the betrayed, the outcast and the 
dying, who lie uncared for at the mercy of human fiends, 
and often so near to the temples of God that their agonized 
appeals for help are drowned by the organ and choir ! 

12 


CHAPTER IX. 


T he two girls, on leaving tlie “Hawk^s Nest’’ witk 
their plunder, did not pass from the narrow private 
alley into the small street at its termination, but hurried 
along the way they had come, and re-elitered the restau- 
rant by means of the gate opening into the yard. Through 
the back door they gained a small, dark room, from which 
a narrow stairway led to the second and third stories of 
the rear building. They seemed to be entirely familiar 
with the place. 

On reaching the third story. Pinky gave two quick 
raps and then a single rap on a closed door. No move- 
ment being heard within, she rapped again, reversing the 
order — that is, giving one distinct rap, and then two in 
quick succession. At this the door came slowly open, and 
the two girls passed in with their bundle of clothing and 
the traveling-bag. 

The occupant of this room was a small, thin, well- 
dressed man, with cold, restless gray eyes and the air of 
one who was alert and suspicious. His hair was streaked 
with gray, as were also his full beard and moustache. A 
diamond pin of considerable value was in his shirt bosom. 
The room contained but few articles. There was a worn 
and faded carpet on the floor, a writing-table and two or 
three chairs, and a small bookcase with a few books, but 
134 


CAST ADRIFT. 135 

no evidence whatever of business — not a box or bundle 
or article of merchandise was to be seen. 

As the two girls entered he shut the door noiselessly, 
and turned the key inside. Then his manner changed ; 
his eyes lighted, and there was an expression of interest 
in his face. He looked toward the bag and bundle. 

Pinky sat. down upon the floor and hurriedly unlocked 
the traveling-bag. Thrusting in her hand, she drew out 
first a muslin nightgown and threw it down, then a light 
shawl, a new barege dress, a pair of slippers, collars, 
cufi*s, ribbons and a variety of underclothing, and last of 
all a smaJl Bible and a prayer-book. These latter she 
tossed from her with a low derisive laugh, which was 
echoed by her companion. Miss Peter. 

The bundle was next opened, and the cloth sacque, 
the hat, the boots and stockings and the collar and cufis 
thrown upon the floor with the contents of the bag. 

“ How much ?” asked Pinky, glancing up at the man. 

They were the first words that had been spoken. At this 
the man knit his brows in an earnest way, and looked 
business. He lifted each article from the floor, examined 
it carefully and seemed to be making a close estimate of 
its value. The traveling-bag was new, and had cost prob- 
ably five dollars. The cloth sacque could not have been 
made for less than twelve dollars. A fair valuation of 
the whole would have been near forty dollars. 

“ How much ?” repeated Pinky, an impatient quiver in 
her voice. 

“ Six dollars,” replied the man. 

« Six devils !” exclaimed Pinky, in a loud, angry voice. 


136 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ Six devils ! you old swindler !” chimed in Miss Peter. 

You can take them away. Just as you like,” returned 
the man, with cool indifference. “ Perhaps the police will 
give you more. It’s the best I can do.” 

“But see here. Jerkin,” said Pinky: “that sacque is 
worth twice the money.” 

“ Not to me. I haven’t a store up town. I can’t offer 
it for sale in the open market. Don’t you understand ?” 

“ Say ten dollars.” 

“Six.” 

“ Here’s a breast-pin and a pair of ear-rings,” said Miss 
Peter ; “ we^H.throw them in and she handed Jerkin, as 
he was called, the bits of jewelry she had taken from the 
person of Flora Bond. He looked at them almost con- 
temptuously as he replied, 

“ Wouldn’t give you a dollar for the set.” 

“ Say eight dollars for the whole,” urged Pinky. 

“ Six fifty, and not a cent more,” answered Jerkin. 

“ Hand over, then, you old cormorant !” returned 'the 
girl, fretfully. “ It’s a shame to swindle us in this way.” 

The man took out his pocket-book and paid the money, 
giving half to each of the girls. 

“ It’s just a swindle !” repeated Pinky. “ You’re an old 
hard-fisted money-grubber, and no better than a robber. 
Three dollars and a quarter for all that work ! It doesn’t 
pay for the trouble. We ought to have had ten apiece.” 

“ You can make it ten or twenty, or maybe a hundred, 
if you will,” said Jerkin, with a knowing twinkle in his 
eyes. He gave his thumb a little movement over his 
shoulder as he spoke. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


137 


“ That^s so !” exclaimed Pinky, her manner undergoing 
a change, and her face growing bright — at least as much 
of it as could brighten. “ Look here, Nell,” speaking to 
Miss Peter, and drawing a piece of paper from her pocket, 
“ I’ve got ten rows here. Fanny Bray gave me five dol- 
lars to go a half on each row. Meant to have gone to 
Sam McFaddon’s last night, hut got into a muss with old 
Sal and Norah, and was locked up.” 

“ They make ten hits up there to one at Sam McFad- 
don’s,” said Jerkin, again twitching his thumb over his 
shoulder. “ It’s the luckiest office I ever heard of. Two 
or three hits , every day for a week past— ^t a lucky 
streak, somehow. If you go in anywhere, take my ad- 
vice and go in there,” lifting his hand and twitching his 
thumb upward and over his shoulder again. 

The two girls passed from the room, and the door was 
shut and locked inside. No sooner had they done so 
than Jerkin made a new examination of the articles, 
and after satisfying himself as to their value proceeded 
to put them out of sight. - Lifting aside a screen that 
covered the fireplace, he removed from the chimney 
back, just above the line of sight, a few loose bricks, and 
through the hole thus made thrust the articles he had 
bought, letting them drop into a fireplace on the other 
side. 

On leaving the room of this professional receiver of 
stolen goods. Pinky and her friend descended to the sec- 
ond story, and by a door which had been cut through 
into the adjoining property passed to the rear building 
of the house next door. They found themselves on a 
12 * 


138 


CAST ADRIFT. 


landing, or little square hall, with a stairway passing 
down to the lower story and another leading to the room 
above. A number of persons were going up and coming 
down — a forlorn set, for the most part, of all sexes, ages 
and colors. Those who were going up appeared eager 
and hopeful, while those who were coming down looked 
disappointed, sorrowful, angry or desperate. There was 
a “policy-shop” in one of the rooms above, and these 
were some of its miserable customers. It was the hour 
when the morning drawings of the lotteries were received 
at the office, or “shop,” and the poor infatuated dupes 
who had bet on their favorite “ rows ” were crowding in 
to learn the result. 

Poor old men and women in scant or wretched cloth- 
ing, young girls with faces marred by evil, blotched and 
bloated creatures of both sexes, with little that was 
human in their countenances, except the bare features, 
boys and girls not yet in their teens, but old in vice and 
crime, and drunkards with shaking nerves, — all these were 
going up in hope and coming down in disappointment. 
Here and there was one of a different quality, a scantily- 
dressed woman with a thin, wasted face and hollow eyes, 
who had been fighting the wolf and keeping fast hold of 
her integrity, or a tender, innocent-looking girl, the mes- 
senger of a weak and shiftless mother, or a pale, bright- 
eyed boy whose much -worn but clean and well-kept gar- 
ments gave sad evidence of a home out of which prop and 
stay had been removed. The strong and the weak, the 
pure and the defiled, were there. A poor washerwoman 
who in a moment of weakness has pawned the garments 


CAST ADRIFT. 


139 


entrusted to her care, that she might venture upon a 
“row” of which she had dreamed, comes shrinking down 
with a pale, frightened face, and the bitterness of despair 
in her heart. She has lost. What then ? She has no 
friend from whom she can borrow enough money to 
redeem the clothing, and if it is not taken home, she may 
be arrested as a thief and sent to prison. She goes away, 
and temptation lies close at her feet. It is her extremity 
and the evil one’s opportunity. So far she has kept her- 
self pure, but the disgrace of a public prosecution and a 
sentence to prison are terrible things to contemplate. She 
is in peril of her soul. God help her ! 

Who is this dressed in rusty black garments and 
closely veiled, who comes up from the restaurant, one of 
the convenient and unsuspected entrances to this robber’s 
den ? — for a “ policy-shop ” is simply a robbery shop, and 
is so regarded by the law, which sets a penalty upon the 
“writer” and the “backer” as upon other criminals. 
But who is this veiled woman in faded mourning gar- 
ments who comes gliding as noiselessly as a ghost out from 
one of the rooms of the restaurant, and along the narrow 
entry leading to the stairway, now so thronged with visitors ? 
Every day she comes and goes, no one seeing her face, and 
every day, with rare exceptions, her step is slower and her 
form visibly more shrunken when she goes out than when 
she comes in. She is a broken-down gentlewoman, the 
widow of an officer, who left her at his death a moderate for- 
tune, and quite sufficient for the comfortable maintenance 
of herself and two nearly grown-up daughters. But she 
had lived at the South, and there acquired a taste for lot- 


140 


CAST ADRIFT. 


tery gambling. During her husband’s lifetime she wasted 
considerable money in lottery tickets, once or tmce draw- 
ing small prizes, but like all lottery dupes spending a 
hundred dollars for one gained. The thing had become 
a sort of mania with her. She thought so much of prizes 
and drawn numbers through the day that she dreamed 
of them all night. She had a memorandum-book in 
which were all the combinations she had ever heard of 
as taking prizes. It contained page after page of lucky 
numbers and fancy “ rows,” and was offcener in her hand 
than any other book. 

There being no public sale of lottery tickets in North- 
ern cities, this weak and infatuated woman found out 
where some of the “policy-shops” were kept, and instead 
of buying tickets, as before, risked her money on num- 
bers that might or might not come out of the wheel 
in lotteries said to be drawn in certain Southern' States, 
but chiefly in Kentucky. The numbers rarely if ever 
came out. The chances were too remote. After her 
husband’s death she began fretting over the small- 
ness of her income. It was not sufficient to give her 
daughters the advantages she desired them to have, and 
she knew of but one way to increase it. That way was 
through the policy-shops. So she gave her whole mind 
to this business, with as much earnestness and self- 
absorption as a merchant gives himself to trade. She 
had a dream-book, gotten up especially for policy buyers, 
and consulted it as regularly as a merchant does his 
price-current or a broker the sales of stock. Every day 
she bet on some “ row ” or series of “ rows,” rarely ven- 


CAST ADRIFT. 


141 


turing less than five dollars, and sometimes, when she felt 
more than usually confident, laying down a twenty-dol- 
lar hill, for the “hit” when made gave from fifty to two 
hundred dollars for each dollar put down, varying accord- 
ing to the nature of the combinations. So the more faith 
a policy buyer had in his “ row,” the larger the venture 
he would feel inclined to make. 

Usually it went all one way with the infatuated lady. 
Day after day she ventured, and day after day she lost, 
until from hundreds the sums she was spending had aggre- 
gated themselves into thousands. She changed from one 
policy-shop to another, hoping for better luck. It was 
her business to find them out, and this she was able to 
do by questioning some of those whom she met at the 
shops. One of these was in a building on a principal 
street, the second story of which was occupied by a mil- 
liner. It was visited mostly by ladies, who could pass in 
from the street, no one suspecting their errand. Another 
was in the attic of a house in which were many ofiSces 
and places of business, with people going in and coming 
out all the while, none but the initiated being in the 
secret ; while another was to be found in the rear of a 
photograph gallery. Every day and often twice a day, 
as punctually as any man of business, did this lady make 
her calls at one and another of these policy-offices to get 
the drawings or make new ventures. 4 At remote intervals 
she would make a “hit;” once she drew twenty dollars, 
and once fifty. But for these small gains she had paid 
thousands of dollars. 

After a “hit” the betting on numbers would be bolder. 


142 


CAST ADBIFT. 


Once she selected what was known as a “lucky row,” 
and determined to double on it until it came out a 
prize. She began by putting down fifty cents. On the 
next day she put down a dollar upon the same combina- 
tion, losing, of course. Two dollars were ventured on the 
next day ; and so she went on doubling, until, in her des- 
perate infatuation, she doubled for the ninth time, putting 
down two hundred and fifty-six dollars. 

If successful now, she would draw over twenty-five 
thousand dollars. There was no sleep for the poor 
lady during the night that followed. She walked the 
floor of her chamber in a state of intense nervous excite- 
ment, sometimes in a condition of high hope and con- 
fidence and sometimes haunted by demons of despair. 
She sold five shares of stock on which she had been re- 
ceiving an annual dividend of ten per cent., in order to 
get funds for this desperate gambling venture, in which 
over five hundred dollars had now been absorbed. 

Pale and nervous, she made her appearance at the 
breakfast-table on the next morning, unable to take a 
mouthful of food. It was in vain that her anxious 
daughters urged her to eat. 

A little after twelve o’clock she was at the policy- 
oifice. The drawn numbers for the morning were already 
in. Her combination was 4, 10, 40. With an eagerness 
that could not be repressed, she caught up the slip of 
paper containing the thirteen numbers out of seventy- 
five, which purported to have been drawm that morning 
somewhere in “Kentucky,” and reported by telegraph — 
caught it up with hands that shook so violently that she 


CAST ADRIFT. 


143 


could not read the figures. She had to lay the piece of 
paper down upon the little counter before which she 
stood, in order that it might be still, so that she could 
read her fate. 

The first drawn number was 4. What a wild leap her 
heart gave ! The next was 24 ; the next 8 ; the next 70; 
the next 41, and the next 39. Her heart grew almost 
still ; the pressure as of a great hand was on her bosom. 
10 came next. Two numbers of her row were out. A 
quiver of excitement ran through her frame. She caught 
up the paper, but it shook as before, so that she could not 
see the figures. Dashing it back upon the counter, and 
holding it down almost violently, she bent over, with eyes 
starting from their sockets, and read the line of figures to 
the end, then sank over upon the counter with a groan, 
and lay there half fainting and too weak to lift herself 
up. If the 40 had been there, she would have made a 
hit of twenty-five thousand dollar^ . But the 40 was not 
there, and this made all the difference. 

“ Once more,” said the policy-dealer, in a tone of en- 
couragement, as he bent over the miserable woman. 
« Yesterday, 4 came out ; to-day, 4, 10 ; to-morrow will 
be the lucky chance ; 4, 10, 40 will surely be drawn. I 
never knew this order to fail. If it had been 10 first, and 
then 4, 10, or 10, 4, I would not advise you to go on. 
But 4, 10, 40 will be drawn to-morrow as sure as fate.” 

“What numbers did you say? 4,. 10, 40?” asked an 
old man, ragged and bloated, who came shuffling in as 
the last remark was made. 

“ Yes,” answered the dealer. “ This lady has been 


144 


CAST ADBIFT. 


doubling, and as the chances go, her row is certain to 
make a hit to-morrow.” 

‘‘Ha! What’s the row? 4,10,40?” 

“Yes.” 

The old man fumbled in his pocket, and brought out 
ten cents. 

“ I’ll go that on the row. Give me a piece.” 

The dealer took a narrow slip of paper and wrote on 
it the date, the sum risked and the combination of 
figures, and handed it to the old man, saying, 

“ Come here to-morrow ; and if the bottom of the world 
doesn’t drop out, you’ll find ten dollars waiting for you.” 

Two or three others were in by this time, eager to look 
over the list of drawn numbers and to make new bets. 

“ Glory I” cried one of them, a vile-looking young 
woman, and she commenced dancing about the room. 

All was excitement now. “ A hit ! a hit I” was cried. 
“ How much ? how much ?” and they gathered to the little 
counter and desk of the policy-dealer. 

“ 1, 2, 3,” cried the girl, dancing about and waving her 
little slip of paper over her head. “ I knew it would 
come — dreamed of them numbers three nights hand run- 
ning ! Hand over the money, old chap ! Fifteen dollars 
for fifteen cents ! That’s the go 1” 

The policy-dealer took the girl’s “piece,” and after 
comparing it with the record of drawn numbers, said, in 
a pleased voice, 

“ All right I A hit, sure enough. You’re in luck to-day.” 

The girl took the money, that was promptly paid down, 
and as she counted it over the dealer remarked, 


CAST ADRIFT. 


145 


“ There’s a doubling game going on, and it’s to be up 
to-morrow, sure.” 

« What’s the row ?” inquired the girl. 

“ 4, 10, 40,” said the dealer. 

Then count me in and she laid down five dollars on 
the counter. 

« Take my advice and go ten,” urged the policy-dealer. 

“ No, thank you ! shouldn’t know what to do with more 
than five hundred dollars. I’ll only go five dollars this 
time.” 

The « writer,” as a policy-seller is called, took the money 
and gave the usual written slip of paper containing the 
selected numbers ; loudly proclaiming her good luck, the 
girl then went away. She was an accomplice to whom a 
“piece” had been secretly given after the drawn numbers 
were in. 

Of course this hit was the sensation of the day among 
the policy-buyers at that office, and brought in large 
gains. 

•The wretched woman who had just seen five hundred 
dollars vanish into nothing instead of becoming, as under 
the wand of an enchanter, a great heap of gold, listened 
in a kind of maze to what passed around her — listened 
and let the tempter get to her ear again. She went away, 
stooping in her gait as one bearing a heavy burden. Be- 
fore an hour had passed hope had lifted her again into 
confidence. She had to make but one venture more, to 
double on the risk of the day previous, and secure a for- 
tune that would make both herself andr daughters inde- 
pendent for life. 

13 


K 


146 


CAST ADRIFT 


Anotlier sale of good stocks, another gambling venture 
and another loss, swelling the aggregate in this wild and 
hopeless “doubling” experiment to over a thousand dol- 
lars. 

But she was not cured. As regularly as a drunkard 
goes to the bar went she to the policy-shops, every day 
her fortune growing less. Poverty began to pinch. The 
house in which she lived with her daughters was sold, and 
the unhappy family shrunk into a single room in a third- 
rate boarding-house. But their income soon became in- 
sufficient to meet the weekly demand for board. Long 
before this the daughters had sought for something to do 
by which to earn a little money. Pride struggled hard 
with them, but necessity was stronger than pride. 

We finish the story in a few words. In a moment of 
weakness, with want and hard work staring her in the 
face, one of the daughters married a man who broke her 
heart and buried her in less than two years. The other, 
a weak and sickly girl, got a situation as day governess 
in the family of an old friend of her father’s, where she 
was kindly treated, but she lived only a short time after 
her sister’s death. 

And still there was no abatement of the mother’s in- 
fatuation. She was more than half insane on the subject 
of policy gambling, and confident of yet retrieving her 
fortunes. 

At the time Pinky Swett and her friend in evil saw her 
come gliding up from the restaurant in faded mourning 
garments and closely veiled, she was living alone in a 
small, meagrely furnished room, and cooking her own food. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


147 


Everything left to her at her husband’s death was gone. 
She earned a dollar or two each week by making shirts 
and drawers for the slop-shops, spending every cent of this 
in policies. A few old friends who pitied her, but did not 
know of the vice in which she indulged, paid her rent and 
made occasional contributions for her support. All of 
these contributions, beyond the amount required for a 
very limited supply of food, went to the policy-shops. It 
was a mystery to her friends how she had managed to 
waste the handsome property left by her husband, but no 
one suspected the truth. 


CHAPTER X. 


HO’S that, I wonder asked Nell Peter as the 



dark, closely-veiled figure glided past them on the 


stairs. 


“ Oh, she’s a policy-drunkard,” answered Pinky, loud 
enough to be heard by the woman, who, as if surprised 
or alarmed, stopped and turned her head, her veil falling 
partly away, and disclosing features so pale and wasted 
that she looked more like a ghost than living flesh and 
blood. There was a strange gleam in her eyes. She 
paused only for an instant, but her steps were slower as 
she went on climbing the steep and narrow stairs that led 
to the policy-ofiice. 

“Good Gracious, Pinky! did you ever see such a 
face?” exclaimed Nell Peter. “It’s a walking ghost, I 
should say, and no woman at all.” 

“ Oh, I’ve seen lots of ’em,” answered Pinky. “ She’s 
a policy-drunkard. Bad as drinking when it once gets 
hold of ’em. They tipple all the time, sell anything, beg, 
borrow, steal or starve themselves to get money to buy 
policies. She’s one of ’em that’s starving.” 

By this time they had reached the policy-office. It was 
in a small room on-the third floor of the back building, 
yet as well known to the police of the district as if it had 
been on the front street. One of these public guardians 


148 


CAST ADBIFT, 


149 


soon after his appointment through political influence, 
and while some wholesome sense of duty and moral re- 
sponsibility yet remained, caused the “writer’^ in this 
particular office to be arrested. He thought that he had 
done a good thing, and looked for approval and encour- 
agement. But to his surprise and chagrin he found that 
he had blundered. The case got no farther than the al- 
derman s. J ust how it was managed he did not know, 
but it was managed, and the business of the office went 
on as before. 

A little light came to him soon after, on meeting a 
prominent politician to whom he was chiefly indebted for 
his appointment. Said this individual, with a look of 
warning and a threat in his voice, 

“ See here, my good fellow ; I’m told that you’ve been 
going out of your way and meddling with the policy- 
dealers. Take my advice, and mind your own business. 
If you don’t, it will be all day with you. There isn’t a 
man in town strong enough to fight this thing, so you’d 
better let it alone.” 

And he did let it alone. He had a wife and three little 
children, and couldn’t afford to lose his place. So he 
minded his own business, and let it alone. 

Pinky and her friend entered this small third-story 
back room. Behind a narrow, unpainted counter, having 
a desk at one end, stood a middle-aged man, with dark, 
restless eyes that rarely looked you in the face. He wore 
a thick but rather closely-cut beard and moustache. 
The police knew him very well ; so did the criminal law- 
yers, when he happened to come in their way; so did 
13 * 


150 


CAST ADRIFT 


the officials of two or three State prisons in which he 
had served out partial sentences. He wag too valuable 
to political “ rings ” and associations antagonistic to moral 
and social well-being to be left idle in the cell of a peni 
tentiary for the whole term of a commitment. Politicianr 
have great influence, and governors are human. 

On the walls of the room were pasted a few pictures 
cut from the illustrated papers, some of them portraits of 
leading politicians, and some of them portraits of noted 
pugilists and sporting-men. The picture of a certain 
judge, who had made himself obnoxious to the frater- 
nity of criminals by his severe sentences, was turned 
upside down. There was neither table nor chair in the 
room. 

The woman in black had passed in just before the girls, 
and was waiting her turn to examine the drawn numbers. 
She had not tasted food since the day before, having ven- 
tured her only dime on a policy, and was feeling strangely 
faint and bewildered. She did not have to wait long. It 
was the old story. Her combination had not come out, 
and she was starving. As she moved back toward the 
door she staggered a little. Pinky, who had become cu- 
rious about her, noticed this, and watched her as she went 
out. 

“ It’s about up with the old lady, I guess,” she said to 
her companion, with an unfeeling laugh. 

And she was right. On the next morning the poor 
old w^oman was found dead in her room, and those who 
prepared her for burial said that she was wasted to a 
skeleton. She had, in fact, starved herself in her infatua- 


CAST ADRIFT. 


151 


tion, spending day after day in policies what she should 
have spent for food. Pinky’s strange remark was but too 
true. She had become a policy-drunkard — a vice almost 
as disastrous in its effects as its kindred vice, intemper- 
ance, though less brutalizing and less openly indulged. 

“ Where now ?” was the question of Pinky’s friend as 
they came down, after spending in policies all the money 
they had received from the sale of Flora Bond’s clothing. 
‘‘ Any other game ?” 

«Yes.” 

<^What?” 

Come along to my room, and I’ll tell you.” 

‘‘ Round in Ewing street ?” 

Yes. Great game up, if I can only get on the track.” 

‘‘ What is it ?” 

“ There’s a cast-off baby in Dirty Alley, and Pan Bray 
knows its mother, and she’s rich.” 

«What?” 

‘‘ Fan’s getting lots of hush-money.” 

“ Goody ! but that is game !” 

<< Isn’t it ? The baby’s owned by two beggar-women 
who board it in Dirty Alley. It’s ’most starved and 
frozen to death, and Pan’s awful ’fraid it may die. She 
wants me to steal it for her, so that she may have it bet- 
ter taken care of, and I was going to do it last night, 
when I got into a muss.” 

« Who’s the woman that boards it ?” 

‘‘ She lives in a cellar, and is drunk every night. Can 
steal the brat easily enough ; but if I can’t find out who 
it belongs to, you see it will be trouble for nothing.” 


152 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ No, I don^t see any such thing, answered Nell Peter. 
“ If you can’t get hush-money out of its mother, you can 
bleed Fanny Bray.” 

That’s so, and I’m going to bleed her. The mother, 
you see, thinks the baby’s dead. The proud old grand- 
mother gave it away, as soon as it was born, to a woman 
that Fan Bray found for her. Its mother was out of her 
head, and didn’t know nothing. That woman sold the 
baby to the women who keep it to beg with. She’s gone 
up the spout now, and nobody knows who the mother and 
grandmother are but Fan, and nobody knows where the 
baby is but me and Fan. She’s bleeding the old lady, 
and promises to share with me if I keep track of the baby 
and see that it isn’t killed or starved to death. But I 
don’t trust her. She puts me off with fives and tens, when 
I’m sure she gets hundreds. Now, if we have the baby 
all to ourselves, and find out the mother and grand- 
mother, won’t we have a splendid chance ? I’ll bet you 
on that.” 

“ Won’t we? Why, Pinky, this is a gold-mine I” 
Didn’t I tell you there was great game up ? I was 
just wanting some one to help me. Met you in the nick 
of time.” 

The two girls had now reached Pinky’s room in Ewing 
§treet, where they continued in conference for a long time 
before settling their plans. 

“Does Fan know where you live?” queried Nell 
Peter. 

“Yes.” 

“ Then you will haye to change your quarters.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 153 

“ Easily done. Doesn’t take half a dozen furniture- 
cars to move me.” 

“ I know a room.” 

“Where?” 

“ It’s a little too much out of the way, you’ll think, 
maybe, but it’s just the dandy for hiding in. You can 
keep the brat there, and nobody — ” 

“ Me keep the brat?” interrupted Pinky, with a derisive 
laugh. “ That’s a good one ! I see myself turned baby- 
tender ! Ha ! ha ! that’s funny !” 

“ What do you expect to do with the child after you 
steal it?” asked Pinky’s friend. 

“ I don’t intend to nurse it or have it about me.” 

“ What then ?” 

“ Board it with some one who doesn’t get drunk or buy 
policies.” 

“You’ll hunt for a long time.” 

“ Maybe, but I’ll try. Anyhow, it can’t be worse olf 
than it is now. What I’m afraid of is that it will be 
out of its misery before we can get hold of it. The 
woman who is paid for keeping it at night doesn’t give it 
any milk — just feeds it on bread soaked in water, and 
that is slow starvation. It’s the way them that don’t 
want to keep their babies get rid of them about here.” 

“The game’s up if the baby dies,” said Nell Peter, 
growing excited under this view of the case. “ If it only 
gets bread soaked in water, it can’t live. I’ve seen that 
done over and over again. They’re starving a baby on 
bread and water now just over from my room, and it 
cries and frets and moans all the time it’s awake, poor 


154 


CAST ADRIFT, 


little wretch ! I’ve been in hopes for a week that they’d 
give it an overdose of paregoric or something else.” 

“We must fix it to-night in some way,” answered 
Pinky. “ Where’s the room you spoke of?” 

“In Grubb’s court. You know Grubb’s court? — a 
kind of elbow going ofi* from Rider’s court. There’s a 
room up there that you can get where even the police 
would hardly find you out.” 

“ Thieves live there,” said Pinky. 

“ No matter. They’ll not trouble you or the baby.” 

“ Is the room furnished ?” 

“ Yes. There’s a bed and a table and two chairs.” 

After farther consultation it was decided that Pinky 
should move at once from her present lodgings to the 
room in Grubb’s court, and get, if possible, possession of 
the baby that very night. The moving was easily ac- 
complished after the room was secured. Two small 
bundles of clothing constituted Pinky’s entire effects; 
and taking these, the two girls went quietly out, leaving 
a week’s rent unpaid. 

The night that closed this early winter day was raw 
and cold, the easterly wind still prevailing, with occa- 
sional dashes of rain. In a cellar without fire, except a 
few bits, of smouldering wood in an old clay furnace, 
that gave no warmth to the damp atmosphere, and with 
scarcely an article of furniture, a woman half stupid 
from drink sat on a heap of straw, her bed, with her 
hands clasped about her knees. She was rocking her 
body backward and forward, and crooning to herself in 
a maudlin way. A lighted tallow candle stood on the 


i 


I 


\ 




AMONG THE PIRATES. 


See page 155 





CAST ADRIFT. 155 

floor of the cellar, and near it a cup of water, in which 
was a spoon and some bread soaking. 

“ Mother Hewitt !” called a voice from the cellar door 
that opened on the street. “ Here, take the baby !” 

Mother Hewitt, as she was called, started up and made 
her way with an unsteady gait to the front part of the 
cellar, where a woman in not much better condition than 
h^self stood holding out a bundle of rags in which a 
fretting baby was wrapped. 

“ Quick, quick !” called the woman. “ And see here,” 
she continued as Mother Hewitt reached her arms for the 
baby ; “ I don’t believe you’re doing the right thing. Did 
he have plenty of milk last night and this morning ?” 

“ Just as much as he would take.” 

“ I don’t believe it. He’s been frettin’ and chawin’ at 
the strings of his hood all the afternoon, when he ought 
to have been asleep, and he’s looking punier every day. 
I believe you’re giving him only bread and water.” 

But Mother Hewitt protested that she gave him the 
best of new milk, and as much as he would take. 

“Well, here’s a quarter,” said the woman, handing 
IMother Hewitt some money ; “ and see that he is well fed 
to-night *and to-morrow morning. He’s getting ’most too. 
deathly in his face. The people won’t stand it if they 
think a baby’s going to die— the women ’specially, and 
most of all the young things that have lost babies. One 
of these — I know ’em by the way they look out of their 
eyes — came twice to-day and stood over him, sad and sor- 
rowful like ; she didn’t give me anything I’ve seen her 
before. Maybe she’s his mother. As like as not, for no- 


156 


CAST ADRIFT, 


body knows where he came from. Wasn’t Sally Long’s 
baby; always thought she’d stole him from somebody. 
Now, mind, he’s to have good milk every day, or I’ll 
change his boarding-house. D’ye hear !” 

And laughing at this sally, the woman turned away to 
spend in a night’s debauch the money she had gained in 
half a day’s begging. 

Left to herself. Mother Hewitt went staggering back 
with the baby in her arms; and seated herself on the 
ground beside the cup of bread and water, which was 
mixed to the consistence of cream. As she did so the 
light of her poor candle fell on the baby’s face. It was 
pinched and hungry and ashen pale, the thin lips WTOught 
by want and suffering into such sad expressions of pain 
that none but the most stupid and hardened could look at 
them and keep back a gush of tears. 

But Mother Hewitt saw nothing of this — felt nothing of 
this. Pity and tenderness had long since died out of her 
heart. As she laid the baby back on one arm she took 
a spoonful of the mixture prepared for its supper, and 
pushed it roughly into its mouth. The baby swallowed it 
with a kind of starving eagerness, but with no sign of sat- 
isfaction on its sorrowful little face. But Moth^ Hewitt 
was too impatient to get through with her work of feeding 
the child, and thrust in spoonful after spoonful until it 
choked, when she shook it angrily, calling it vile names. 

The baby cried feebly at this, when she shook it again 
and slapped it with her heavy hand. Then it grew still. 
She put the spoon again to its lips, but it shut them tightly 
and turned its head away. 


CAST ADRIFT 


157 


“Very well,” said Mother Hewitt. “If you won’t, 
you won’t;” and she tossed the helpless thing as she would 
have tossed a senseless bundle over upon the heap of 
straw that served as a bed, adding, as she did so, “ I never 
coaxed my own brats.” 

The baby did not cry. Mother Hewitt then blew out 
the candle, and groping her way to the door of the cellar 
that opened on the street, went out, shutting down the 
heavy door behind her, and leaving the child alone in 
that dark and noisome den — alone in its foul and wet 
garments; but, thanks to kindly drugs, only partially 
conscious of its misery. 

Mother Hewitt’s first visit was to the nearest dram-shop. 
Here she spent for liquor five cents of the money she had 
received. From the dram-shop she went to Sam McFad- 
don’s policy-office. This was not hidden away, like most 
of the offices, in an upper room or a back building or in 
some remote cellar, concealed from public observation, 
but stood with open door on the very street, its customers 
going in and out as freely and unquestioned as the cus- 
tomers of its next-door neighbor, the dram-shop. Police- 
men passed Sam’s door a hundred times in every twenty- 
four hours, saw his customers going in and out, knew 
their errand, talked with Sam about his business, some of 
them trying their luck occasionally after there had been 
an exciting “ hit,” but none reporting him or in any way 
interfering with his unlicensed plunder of the miserable 
and besotted wretches that crowded his neighborhood. 

From the whisky-shop to the policy-shop went Mother 
Hewitt. Here she put down five cents more ; she never 
14 


158 


CAST ADRIFT. 


bet higher than this on a “ row.” From the policy-shop 
she went back to the whisky-shop, and took another 
drink. By this time she was beginning to grow noisy. 
It so happened that the woman who had left the baby 
with her a little while before came in just then, and 
being herself much the worse for drink, picked a quarrel 
with Mother Hewitt, accusing her of getting drunk on 
the money she received for keeping the baby, and starv- 
ing it to death. A fight was the consequence, in which 
they were permitted to tear and scratch and bruise each 
other in a shocking way, to the great enjoyment of the 
little crowd of debased and brutal men and women who 
filled the dram-shop. But fearing a visit from the police, 
the owner of the den, a strong, coarse Irishman, interfered, 
and dragging the women apart, 'pushed Mother Hewitt 
out, giving her so violent an impetus that she fell forward 
into the middle of the narrow street, where she lay unable 
to rise, not from any hurt, but from sheer intoxication. 

“What’s up now?” cried one and another as this little 
ripple of disturbance broke upon that vile and troubled 
sea of humanity. 

“ Only Mother Hewitt drunk again !” lightly spoke a 
young girl not out of her teens, but with a countenance 
that seemed marred by centuries of debasiug evil. Her 
laugh would have made an angel shiver. 

A policeman came along, and stood for a little while 
looking at the prostrate woman. 

“ It’s Mother Hewitt,” said one of the bystanders. 

“Here, Dick,” and the policeman spoke to a man near 
him. “ Take hold of her feet.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


159 


The man did as told, and the policeman lifting the 
woman’s head and shoulders, they carried her a short 
distance, to where a gate opened into a large yard used 
for putting in carts and wagons at night, and deposited 
her on the ground just inside. 

“ She can sleep it off there,” said the policeman as he 
dropped his unseemly load. “She’ll have a-plenty to 
keep her company before morning.” 

And so they left her without covering or shelter in 
the wet and chilly air of a late November night, drunk 
and asleep. 

As the little crowd gathered by this ripple of excite- 
ment melted away, a single figure remained lurking in 
a corner of the yard and out of sight in its dark shadow. 
It was that of a man.* The moment he was alone with 
the unconscious woman he glided toward her with the 
alert movements of an animal, and with a quickness that 
made his work seem instant, rifled her pockets. His 
gains were ten cents and the policy-slip she had just 
received at Sam McFaddon’s. He next examined her 
shoes, but they were of no value, lifted her dirty dress 
and felt its texture for a moment, then dropped it with a 
motion of disgust and a growl of disappointment. 

As he came out from the yard with his poor booty, 
the light from a street-lamp fell on as miserable a look- 
ing wretch as e'^er hid himself from the eyes of day — 
dirty, ragged, bloated, forlorn, with scarcely a trace of 
manhood in his swollen and disfigured face. His steps, 
quick from excitement a few moments before, were now 
shambling and made with difficulty. He had not far to 


160 


CAST ADRIFT. 


walk for what he was seeking. The ministers to his appe- 
tite were all about him, a dozen in every block of that 
terrible district that seemed as if forsaken by God and 
man. Into the first that came in his way he went with 
nervous haste, for he had not tasted of the fiery stimu- 
lant he was craving with a fierce and unrelenting thirst 
for many hours. He did not leave the bar until he had 
drank as much of the burning poison its keeper dis- 
pensed as his booty would purchase. In less than half 
an hour he was thrown dead drunk into fhe street and 
then carried by policemen to the old wagon-yard, to take 
his night’s unconscious rest on the ground in company 
with Mother Hewitt and a score besides of drunken 
wretches who were pitilessly turned out from the various 
dram-shops after their money was spent, and who were 
not considered by the police worth the trouble of taking 
to the station-house. 

When Mother Hewitt crept back into her cellar at 
daylight, the baby was gone. 


CHAPTER XI. 


F or more than a week after Edith’s call on Dr. Rad- 
cliffe she seemed to take but little interest in any- 
thing, and remained alone in her room for a greater part 
of the time, except when her father was in the house. 
Since her questions about her baby a slight reserve 
had risen up between them. During this time she 
went out at least once every day, and when questioned 
by her mother as to where she had been, evaded any 
direct answer. “ If questioned more closely, she would 
show a rising spirit and a decision of manner that had 
the effect to silence and at the same time to trouble Mrs. 
Dinneford, whose mind was continually on the rack. 

One day the mother and daughter met in a part of 
the city where neither of them dreamed of seeing the 
other. It was not far from where Mrs. Bray lived. Mrs. 
Dinneford had been there on a purgational visit, and had 
come away lighter in purse and with a heavier burden 
of fear and anxiety on her heart. 

“ What are you doing here ?” she demanded. 

“ I’ve been to St. John’s mission sewing-school,” replied 
Edith. “ I have a class there.” 

“You have! Why didn’t you tell me this before? I 
don’t like such doings. This is no place for you.” 

14 » L I6i 


162 


CAST ADRIFT 


** My place is where I can do good,” returned Edith, 
speaking slowly, but with great firmness. 

“ Good ! You can do good if you want to without de- 
meaning yourself to work like this. I d(in’t want you 
mixed up with these low, vile people, and I won’t have 
it !” Mrs. Dinneford spoke in a sharp, positive voice. 

Edith made no answer, and they walked on together. 

“ I shall speak to your father about this,” said Mrs. 
Dinneford. “It isn’t reputable. I wouldn’t have you 
seen here for the world.” 

“I shall walk unhurt; you need not fear,” returned 
Edith. 

There was silence between them for some time, Edith 
not caring to speak, and Jier mother in doubt as to what 
it were best to say. 

“How long have you been going to St. John’s mission 
school ?” at length queried Mrs. Dinneford. 

“ I’ve been only a few times,” replied Edith. 

“And have a class of diseased and filthy little wretches, 
I suppose — gutter children ?” 

“ They are God’s children,” said Edith, in a tone of re- 
buke. 

“ Oh, don’t preach to me !” was angrily replied. 

“ I only said what was true,” remarked Edith. 

There Was silence again. 

“Are you going directly home?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, 
after they had walked the distance of several blocks. 
Edith replied that she was. 

“ Then you’d better take that car. I shall not be home 
for an hour yet.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


163 


They separated, Edith taking the car. ^ As soon as she 
was alone Mrs. Dinneford quickened her steps, like a 
person who had been held back from some engagement. 
A walk of ten minutes brought her to one of the princi- 
pal hotels of the city. Passing in, she went up to a re- 
ception-parlor, where she was met by a man who rose 
from a seat near the window and advanced to the middle 
of the room. He was of low stature, with quick, rather 
nervous movements, had dark, restless eyes, and wore a 
heavy black moustache that was liberally sprinkled with 
gray. The lower part of his face was shaved clean. He 
showed some embarrassment as he came forward to meet 
Mrs. Dinneford. 

Mr. Freeling,” she said, coldly. 

The man bowed with a mixture of obsequiousness and 
familiarity, and tried to look steadily into Mrs. Dinne- 
ford’s face, but was not able to do so. There was a 
steadiness and power in her eyes that his could not bear. 

VWhat do you want with me, sir?” she demanded, a 
little sharply. 

<‘Take a chair, and I will tell you,” replied Freeling, 
and he turned, moving toward a corner of the room, she 
following. They sat down, taking chairs near each other. 

“ There’s trouble brewing,” said the man, his face grow- 
ing dark and anxious. 

“ What kind of trouble ?” 

I had a letter from George Granger yesterday.” 

What !” The color went out of the lady’s face. 

“A letter from George Granger. He wished to see 
me.” 


164 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ Did you go ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What did lie want ?” 

Freeling took a deep breath, and sighed. His manner 
was troubled. 

“What did he want?” Mrs. Dinneford repeated the 
question. 

“ He’s as sane as you or I,” said Freeling. 

“ Is he ? Oh, very well ! Then let him go to the State’s 
prison.” Mrs. Dinneford said this with some bravado in 
her manner. But the color did not come back to her 
face. 

“ He has no idea of that,” was replied. 

“What then?” The lady leaned toward Freeling. 
Her hands moved nervously. 

“ He means to have the case in court again, but on a 
new issue.” 

“ He does !” 

“Yes; says that he’s innocent, and that you aurr, I 
know it — that he’s the victim of a conspiracy, and that 
we are the conspirators !” 

“Talk! — amounts to nothing,” returned Mrs. Dinne- 
ford, with a faint little laugh. 

“ I don’t know about that. It’s ugly talk, and espe- 
cially so, seeing that it’s true.” 

“No one will give credence to the ravin ■/s of an insane 
criminal.” 

“ People are quick to credit an evil report. They will 
pity and believe him, now that the worst is reached. A 
reaction in public feeling has already taken place. He 


CAST ADRIFT 


165 


has one or two friends left who do not hesitate to affirm 
that there has been foul play. One of these has been 
tampering with a clerk of mine, and I came upon them 
with their heads together on the street a few days ago, 
and had my suspicions aroused by their startled look 
when they saw me.” 

“ ‘ What did that man want with you ?’ I inquired, 
when the clerk came in. 

“ He hesitated a moment, and then replied, ‘ He was 
asking me something about Mr. Granger.’ 

“ ‘ What about him ?’ I queried. < He asked me if I 
knew anything in regard to the forgery,’ he returned. 

“I pressed him with questions, and found that sus- 
picion was on the right track. This friend of Granger’s 
asked particularly about your visits to the store, and 
whether he had ever noticed anything peculiar in our in- 
tercourse — anything that showed a familiarity beyond 
what would naturally arise between a customer and 
salesman.” 

“ There’s nothing in that,” said Mrs. Dinneford. “ If 
you and I keep our own counsel, we are safe. The testi- 
mony of a condemned criminal goes for nothing. People 
may surmise and talk as much as they please, but no one 
knows anything about these notes but you and I and 
George.” 

“ A pardon from the governor may put a new aspect 
on the case.” 

« A pardon !” There was a tremor of alarm in Mrs. 
Dinneford’s voice. 

“ Yes ; that, no doubt, will be the first move.” 


166 


CAST ADRIFT. 


<‘The first move! Why, Mr. Freeling, you don’t 
think anything like this is in contemplation ?” 

“ I’m afraid so. George, as I have said, is no more 
crazy than you or I. But he cannot come out of the 
asylum, as the case now stands, without going to the 
penitentiary. So the first move of his friends will be to 
get a pardon. Then he is our equal in the eyes of the 
law. It would be an ugly thing for you and me to be 
sued for a conspiracy to ruin this young man, and have 
the charge of forgery added to the count.” 

Mrs. Dinneford gave a low cry, and shivered. 

“ But it may come to that.” • 

“ Impossible I” 

“ The prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth him- 
self, but the simple pass on and are punished,” said Free- 
ling. ‘‘ It is for this that I have sent for you. It’s an 
ugly business, and I was a weak fool ever to have en- 
gaged in it.” 

“ You were a free agent.” 

“ I was a weak fool.” 

“ As you please,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, coldly, and 
drawing herself away from him. 

It was some moments before either of them spoke 
again. Then Freeling said, 

“ I was awake all night, thinking over this matter, and 
it looks uglier the more I think of it. It isn’t likely that 
enough evidence could be found to convict either of us, 
but to be tried on such an accusation would be horrible.” 

“ Horrible ! horrible !” ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford. 
« What is to be done ?” She gave signs of weakness and 


CAST ADRIFT. 167 

terror. Freeling observed ber .closely, then felt his way 
onward. 

“We are in great peril,” he said. “ There is no know- 
ing what turn affairs will take. I only wish I were a 
thousand miles from here. It would be safer for us both.” 
Then, after a pause, he added, “ If I were foot-free, I 
would be off to-morrow.” 

He watched Mrs. Dinneford closely, and saw a change 
creep over her face. 

“ If I were to disappear suddenly,” he resumed, “ sus- 
picion, if it took a definite shape, would fall on me. You 
would not be thought of in the matter.” 

He paused again, observing his companion keenly but 
stealthily. He was not able to look her fully in the face. 

“ Speak out plainly,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with visible 
impatience. 

“ Plainly, then, madam,” returned Freeling, changing 
his whole bearing toward her, and speaking as one who 
felt that he was master of the situation, “ it has come to 
this: I shall have to break up and leave the city, or 
there will be a new trial in which you and I will be the 
accused. Now, self-preservation is the first law of nature. 
I don’t mean to go to the State’s prison if I can help 
it. What I am now debating are the chances in my 
favor if Granger gets a pardon, and then makes an effort 
to drive us to the wall, which he most surely will. I 
have settled it so far — ” 

Mrs. \ ’nneford leaned toward him with an anxious ex- 
pression V ' her countenance, waiting for the next sen- 
tence. But Freeling did not go on. 


168 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ How have you settled it T she demanded, trembling 
as she spoke with the excitement of suspense. 

“ That I am not going to the wall if I can help it.” 

“ How will you help it 

“ I have an accomplice and this time he was able to 
look at Mrs. Hinneford with such a fixed and threatening 
gaze that her eyes fell. 

You have?” she questioned, in a husky voice. 

“Yes.” 

' “Who?” 

“ Mrs. Helen Hinneford. And do you think for a mo- 
ment that to save myself I would hesitate to sacrifice 
her?” 

The lady’s face grew white. She tried to speak, but 
could not. 

“ I am talking plainly, as you desired, madam,” con- 
tinued Freeling. “ You led me into this thing. It was 
no scheme of mine ; and if more evil consequences are to 
come, I shall do my best to save my own head. Let 
the hurt go to where it rightfully belongs.” 

“ What do you mean ?” Mrs. Hinneford tried to rally 
herself. 

“Just this,” was answered: “if I am dragged into 
court, I mean to go in as a witness, and not as a criminal. 
At the first movement toward an indictment, I shall see 
the district attorney, whom I know very well, and give 
him such information in the case as will lead to fixing 
the crime on you alone, while I will come in as the prin- 
cipal witness. This will make your conviction certain.” 

“ Hevil !” exclaimed Mrs. Hinneford, her white face con- 


CAST ADRIFT. 


169 


vulsed and her eyes starting from their sockets with rage 
and fear. “ Devil !” she repeated, not able to control her 
passion. 

“ Then you know me,” was answered, with cool self- 
possession, “ and what you have to expect.” 

Neither spoke for a considerable time. Up to this 
period they had been alone in the parlor. Guests of the 
house now came in and took seats near them. They 
arose and walked the floor for a little while, still in si- 
lence, then passed ihto an adjoining parlor that happened 
to be empty, and resumed the conference. 

This is a last resort,” remarked Freeling, softening 
his voice as they sat down — “ a card that I do not wish 
to play, and shall not if I can help it. But it is best that 
you should know that it is in my hand. If there is any 
better way of escape, I shall take it.” 

“You spoke of going away,” said Mrs. Dinneford. 

“ Yes. But that involves a great deal.” 

“ What?” 

“ The breaking up of my business, and loss of money 
and opportunities that I can hardly hope ever to regain.” 

“ Why loss of money ?” 

“ I shall have to wind up hurriedly, and it will be im- 
possible to collect more than a small part of my outstand- 
ing claims. I shall have to go away under a cloud, and 
it will not be prudent to return. Most of these claims 
will therefore become losses. The amount of capital I 
shall be able to take will not be sufficient to do more than 
provide for a small beginning in some distant place and 
under an assumed name. On the other hand, if I remain 
15 


170 


CAST ADRIFT. 


and fight the thing through, as I have no doubt I can, I 
shall keep my business and my place in society here — 
hurt, it may be, in my good name, but still with the main 
chance all right. But it will be hard for you. If I pass 
the ordeal safely, you will not. And the question to con- 
sider is whether you can make^ it to my interest to go 
away, to drop out of sight, injured in fortune and good 
name, while you go unscathed. You now have it all in 
a nutshell. I will not press you to a decision to-day. 
Your mind is too . much disturbed. To-morrow, at noon, 
I would like to see you again.” 

Freeling made a motion to rise, but Mrs. Dinneford 
did not stir. 

“ Perhaps,” he said, ‘‘ you decide at once to let things 
take their course. Understand me, I am ready for either 
alternative. The election is with yourself.” 

Mrs. Dinneford was too much stunned by all this to be 
able to come to any conclusion. She seemed in the 
maze of a terrible dream, full of appalling reality. To 
wait for twenty-four hours in this state of uncertainty 
was more than her thoughts could endure. And yet she 
must have time to think, and to get command of her 
mental resources. 

“ Will you be disengaged at five o’clock ?” she asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ I will be here at five.” 

“ Very well.” 

. Mrs. Dinneford arose with a weary air. 

“ I shall want to hear from you very explicitly,” she 
said. “ If your demand is anywhere in the range of rea- 


CAST ADRIFT. 


171 


son and possibility, I may meet it. If outside of that 
range, I shall of course reject it. It is possible that you 
may not hold all the winning cards — in fact, I know that 
you do not.” 

“ I will be here at five,” said Freeling. 

“ Very well. I shall be on time.” 

And they turned from each other, passing from the 
parlor by separate doors. 


CHAPTER XII. 


O NE morning, about two weeks later, Mr. Freeling did 
not make his appearance at his place of business as 
usual. At ten o’clock a clerk went to the hotel where he 
boarded to learn the cause of his absence. He had not 
been there since the night before. His trunks and cloth- 
ing were all in their places, and nothing in the room in- 
dicated anything more than an ordinary absence. 

Twelve o’clock, and still Mr. Freeling had not come to 
the store. Two or three notes were to be paid that day, 
and the managing-clerk began to feel uneasy. The bank 
and check books were in a private drawer in the fire- 
proof of which Mr. Freeling had the key. So there was 
no means of ascertaining the balances in bank. 

At one o’clock it was thought best to break open the 
private drawer and see how matters stood. Freeling kept 
three bank-accounts, and it was found that on the day 
before he had so nearly checked out all the balances that 
the aggregate on deposit was not over twenty dollars. In 
looking back over these bank-accounts, it was seen that 
within a week he had made deposits of over fifty thou- 
sand dollars, and that most of the checks drawn against 
these deposits were in sums of five thousand dollars 
each. 

At three o’clock he was still absent. His notes went 
172 


CAST ADRIFT 


173 


to protest, and on the next day his city creditors took 
possession of his effects. One fact soon became apparent 
■ — he had been playing the rogue’s game on a pretty liberal 
scale, having borrowed on his checks, from business friends 
and brokers, not less than sixty or seventy thousand dollars. 
It was estimated, on a thorough examination of his busi- 
ness, that he had gone off with at least a hundred thousand 
dollars. To this amount Mrs. Dinneford had contributed 
from her private fortune the sum of twenty thousand dol- 
lars. Not until she had furnished him with that large 
amount would he consent to leave the city. He magnified 
her danger, and so overcame her with terrors that she 
yielded to his exorbitant demand. 

On the day a public newspaper announcement of Free- 
ling’s rascality was made, Mrs. Dinneford went to bed 
sick of a nervous fever, and was for a short period out of 
her mind. 

Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith had failed to notice 
a change in Mrs. Dinneford. She was not able to hide 
her troubled feelings. Edith was watching her far more 
closely than she imagined ; and now that she was tempo- 
rarily out of her mind, she did not let a word or look es- 
cape her. The first aspect of her temporary aberration 
was that of fear and deprecation. She was pursued by 
some one who filled her with terror, and she would lift 
her hands to keep him off, or hide her head in abject 
alarm. Then she would beg him to keep away. Once 
she said, 

“It’s no use; I can’t do anything more. You’re a 
vampire !” 


174 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ Who is a vampire ?” asked Edith, hoping that her 
mother would repeat some name. 

But the question seemed to put her on her guard. The 
expression of fear went out of her face, and she looked at 
her daughter curiously. 

Edith did not repeat the question. In a little while the 
mother’s wandering thoughts began to find words again, 
and she went on talking in broken sentences out of which 
little could be gleaned. At length she said, turning to 
Edith and speaking with the directness of one in her 
right mind, 

“ I told you her name was Gray, didn’t I ? Gray, not 
Bray.” 

It was only by a quick and strong effort that Edith 
could steady her voice as she replied : 

“ Yes ; you said it was Gray.” 

“ Gray, not Bray. You thought it was Bray.” 

“ But it’s Gray,” said Edith, falling in with her mother’s 
humor. Then she added, still trying to keep her voice 
even, 

“ She was my nu^e when baby was born.” 

“ Yes ; she was the nurse, but she didn’t — ” . 

Checking herself, Mrs. Dinneford rose on one arm and 
looked at Edith in a frightened way, then said, hur- 
riedly, 

“Oh, it’s dead, it’s dead! You know that; and the 
woman’s dead, too.” 

Edith sat motionless and silent as a statue, waiting for 
what more might come. But her mother shut her lips 
tightly, and turned her head away. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


175 


A long time elapsed before she was able to read in her 
mother’s confused utterances anything to which she could 
attach a meaning. At last Mrs. Dinneford spoke out 
again, and with an abruptness that startled her ; 

“ Not another dollar, sir ! Remember, you don’t hold 
all the winning cards !” 

Edith held her breath, and sat motionless. Her mother 
muttered and mumbled incoherently for a while, and then 
said, sharply, 

“ I said I would ruin him, and I’w.e done it !” 

“ Ruin who ?” asked Edith, in a repressed voice. 

This question, instead of eliciting an answer, as Edith 
had hoped, brought her mother back to semi-conscious- 
ness. She rose again in bed, and looked at her daughter 
in the same frightened way she had done a little while 
before, then laid herself over on the pillows again. Her 
lips were tightly shut. 

Edith was almost wild with suspense. The clue to that 
sad and painful mystery which was absorbing her life 
seemed almost in her grasp. A word from those closely- 
shut lips, and she would have certainty for uncertainty. 
But she waited and waited until she grew faint, and still 
the lips kept silent. 

But after a while Mrs. Dinneford grew uneasy, and be- 
gan talking. She moved her head from side to side, threw 
her arms about restlessly and appeared greatly disturbed. 

“ Not dead, Mrs. Bray ?” she cried out, at last, in a clear, 
strong voice. 

Edith .became fixed as a statue once more. 

A few moments, and Mrs. Dinneford added. 


176 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ No, no ! I won’t have her coming after me. More 
money ! You’re a vampire !” 

Then she muttered and writhed and distorted her face 
like one in some desperate struggle. Edith shuddered as 
«he stood over hejr. 

After this wild paroxysm Mrs. Dinneford grew more quiet, 
and seemed to sleep. Edith remained sitting by the bed- 
side, her thoughts intent on the strange sentences that had 
fallen from her mother’s lips. What mystery lay behind 
them? Of what secret were they an obscure revelation? 
“ Not dead !” Who not dead ? And again, “ It’s dead ! 
You know that ; and the woman’s dead, too.” Then it 
was plain that she had heard aright the name of the per- 
son who had called on her mother, and about whom her 
mother had made a mystery. It was Bray ; if not, w^hy 
the anxiety to make her believe it Gray ? And this woman 
had been her nurse. It was plain, also, that money was 
being paid for keeping a secret. What secret? Then a 
life had been ruined. “ I said I would ruin liim, and I’ve 
done it !” Who ? who could her mother mean but the 
unhappy man she had once called husband, now a crim- 
inal in the eyes of the law, and only saved by insanity 
from a criminal’s cell ? 

Putting all together, Edith’s mind quickly wrought out 
a theory, and this soon settled into a conviction — a con- 
viction so close to fact that all the chief elements were 
true. 

During her mother’s temporary aberration, Edith never 
left her room except for a few minutes at a time. Not a 
word or sentence escaped her notice. But she waited and 


CAST ADRIFT. 


177 


listened in vain for anything more. The talking parox- 
ysm was over. A stupor of mind and body followed. 
Out of this a slow recovery came, but it did not progress 
to a full convalescence. Mrs. Dinneford went forth from 
her sick-chamber weak and nervous, starting at sudden 
noises, and betraying a perpetual uneasiness and suspense. 
Edith was continually on the alert, watching every look 
and word and act with untiring scrutiny. Mrs. Dinne- 
ford soon became aware of this. Guilt made her wary, 
and danger inspired prudence. Edith’s whole manner had 
changed. Why ? was her natural query. Had she been 
wandering in her mind ? Had she given any clue to the 
dark secrets she was hiding ? Keen observation became 
mutual. Mother and daughter watched each other with 
a suspicion that never slept. 

It was over a month from the time Freeling disap- 
peared before Mrs. Dinneford was strong enough to go 
out, except in her carriage. In every case where she had 
ridden out, Edith had gone with her. 

If you don’t care about riding, it’s no matter,” the 
mother would say, when she saw Edith getting ready. 
« I can go alone. I feel quite well and strong.” 

But Edith always had some reason for going against 
which her mother could urge no objection. So she kept 
her as closely under observation as possible. One day, on 
returning from a ride, as the carriage passed into the 
block where they lived, she saw a woman standing on 
the step in front of their residence. She had pulled the 
bell, and was waiting for a servant to answer it. 

« There is some one at our door,” said Edith. 

M 


178 


CAST ADEIFT. 


Ml'S. Dinneford leaned across her daughter, and then 
drew back quickly, saying, 

“ It’s Mrs. Barker. Tell Henry to drive past. I don’t 
want to see visitors, and'particularly not Mrs. Barker.” 

She spoke hurriedly, and with ill-concealed agitation. 
Edith kept her eyes on the woman, and saw her go in, 
but did not tell the driver to keep on past the house. It 
was not Mrs. Barker. She knew that very well. In the 
next moment their carriage drew up at the door. 

“ Go on, Henry !” cried Mrs. Dinneford, leaning past 
her daughter, and speaking through the window that was 
open on that side. “ Drive down to Loring’s.” 

“ Not till I get out, Henry,” said Edith, pushing open 
the door and stepping to the pavement. Then with a 
quick movement she shut the door and ran across the 
pavement, calling back to the driver as she did so, 

“ Take mother to Loring’s.” 

“Stop, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, and with an 
alertness that was surprising sprung from the carriage, 
and -was on the steps of their house before Edith’s violent 
ring had brought a servant to the door. They passed in, 
Edith holding her place just in advance. 

“ I will see Mrs. Barker,” said Mrs. Dinneford, trying 
to keep out of her voice the fear and agitation from which 
she was suffering. “ You can go up to your room.” 

“It isn’t Mrs. Barker. You are mistaken.” There 
was as much of betrayal in the voice of Edith as in that 
of her mother. Each was trying to hide herself from 
the other, but the veil in both cases was far too' thin for 
deception. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


179 


Mother and daughter entered the parlor together. As 
they did so a woman of small stature, and wearing a 
rusty black dress, arose from a seat near the window. The 
moment she saw Edith she drew a heavy dark veil over 
her face with a quickness of movement that had in it as 
much of discomfiture as surprise. 

Mrs. Dinneford was equal to the occasion. The im- 
minent peril in which she stood calmed the wild tumult 
within, as the strong wind calms the turbulent ocean, and 
gave her thoughts clearness and her mind decision. Edith 
saw before the veil fell a startled face, and recognized in 
the sallow countenance and black, evil eyes, the woman 
who had once before called to see her mother. 

Didn’t I tell you not to come here, Mrs. Grray ?” cried 
out Mrs. Dinneford, with an anger that was more real 
than feigned, advancing quickly upon the woman as she 
spoke. “ Go !” and she pointed to the door, and don’t 
you dare to come here again. I told you when you were 
here last time that I wouldn’t be bothered with you any 
longer. I’ve done all I ever intend doing. So take 
yourself away.” 

And she pointed again to the door. Mrs. Bray — for it 
was that personage — comprehended the situation fully. 
She was as good an actor as Mrs. Dinneford, and quite 
as equal to the occasion. Lifting her hand in a weak, 
deprecating way, and then shrinking like one borne down 
by the shock of a great disappointment, she moved back 
from the excited woman and made her way to the hall,. 
Mrs. Dinneford following and assailing her in passionate 
language. 


180 


CAST ADRIFT. 


Edith was thrown completely off her guard by this 
unexpected scene. She did not stir from the spot where 
she stood on entering the parlor until the visitor was at 
the street door, whither, her mother had followed the 
retreating figure. She did not hear the woman say in 
the tone of one who spoke more in command than en- 
treaty, 

“ To-morrow at one o’clock, or take the consequences.” 

“It will be impossible to-morrow,” Mrs. Dinneford 
whispered back, hurriedly ; “ I have been very ill, and 
have only just begun to ride out. It may be a week, 
but I’ll surely come. I’m watched. Go now ! go ! go !” 

And she pushed Mrs. Bray out into the vestibule and 
shut the door after her. Mrs. Dinneford did not return 
to the parlor, but went hastily up to her own room, lock- 
ing herself in. 

She did not come out until dinner-time, when she made 
an effort to seem composed, but Edith saw her hand trem- 
ble every time it was lifted. She drank three glasses of 
wine during the meal. After dinner she went to her own 
apartment immediately, and did not come down again 
that day. 

On the next morning Mrs. Dinneford tried to appear 
cheerful and indifferent. But her almost colorless face, 
pinched about the lips and nostrils, and the troubled 
expression that would not go out of her eyes, betrayed 
to Edith the intense anxiety and dread that lay beneath 
the surface. 

Days went by, but Edith had no more signs. Now 
that her mother was steadily getting back both bodily 


CAST ADRIFT. 


181 


strength and mental self-poise, the veil behind which she 
was hiding herself, and which had been broken into rifts 
here and there during her sickness, grew thicker and 
thicker. Mrs. Dinneford had too much at stake not to 
play her cards with exceeding care. She knew that 
Edith was watching her with an intentness that let noth- 
ing escape. Her first care, as soon as she grew strong 
enough to have the mastery over herself, was so to con- 
trol voice, manner and expression of countenance as not 
to appear aware of this surveillance. Her next was to 
re-establish the old distance between herself and daugh- 
ter, which her illness had temporarily bridged over, and 
her next was to provide against any more visits from 
Mrs. Bray. 

16 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A S for Edith, all doubts and questionings as to her 
baby’s fate were merged into a settled conviction 
that it was alive, and that her mother knew where it was 
to be found. From her mother’s pity and humanity she 
had nothing to hope for the child. It had been cruelly 
cast adrift, pushed out to die ; by what means was cared 
not, so that it died and left no trace. 

The face of Mrs. Bray had, in the single glance Edith 
obtained of it, become photographed in her mind. If 
she had been an artist, she could have drawn it from 
memory so accurately that no one who knew the woman 
could have failed to recognize her likeness. Always 
when in the street her eyes searched for this face; she 
never passed a woman of small stature and poor dark 
clothing without turning to look at her. Every day she 
went out, walking the streets sometimes for hours looking 
for this face, but not finding it. Every day she passed 
certain corners and localities where she had seen women 
begging, and whenever she found one with a baby in her 
arms would stop to look at the poor starved thing, and 
question her about it. 

Gradually all her thoughts became absorbed in the 
condition of poor, neglected and suffering children. 
Her attendance at the St. John’s mission sewing-school, 
182 


CAST ADRIFT. 


183 


which was located in the neighborhood of one of the 
worst places in the city, brought her in contact with lit- 
tle children in such a wretched state of ignorance, desti- 
tution and vice that her heart was moved to deepest pity, 
intensified by the thought that ever and anon flashed 
across her mind ; “ And my baby may become like one 
of these !” f 

Sometimes this thought would drive her almost to mad- 
ness. Often she would become so wild in her suspense as 
to be on the verge of openly accusing her mother with 
having knowledge of her baby’s existence and demand- 
ing of her its restoration. But she was held back by the 
fear that such an accusation would only shut the door 
of hope for ever. She had come to believe her mother 
capable of almost any wickedness. Pressed to the wall 
she would never be if there was any way of escape, and to 
prevent such a thing there was nothing so desperate that 
she would not do it ; and so Edith hesitated and feared 
to take the doubtful issue. 

Week after week and month after month now went on 
without a single occurrence that gave to Edith any new 
light. Mrs. Dinneford wrought with her accomplice so 
effectually that she kept her wholly out of the way. 
Often, in going and returning from the mission-school, 
Edith would linger about the neighborhood where she 
had once met her mother, hoping to see her come out of 
some one of the houses there, for she had got it into her 
mind that the woman called Mrs. Gray lived somewhere 
in this locality. 

One day, in questioning a child who had come fo the 


184 


CAST ADRIFT. 


sewing-scliool as ta her home and how she lived, the lit- 
tle girl Said something about a baby that her mother said 
she knew must have been stolen. 

“How old is the baby?” asked Edith, hardly able to 
keep the tremor out of her voice. 

“It’s a little thing,” answered the child. “I don’t 
know how old it is ; maybe it’s six months old, or maybe 
it’s a year. It can sit upon the floor.” 

“ Why does your mother think it has been stolen ?” 

“ Because two bad girls have got it, and they pay a 
woman to take care of it. It doesn’t belong to them, 
she knows. Mother says it would be a good thing if it 
died.” 

« Why does she say that?” 

“Oh, she always talks that way about babies — says 
she’s glad when they die.” 

“ Is it a boy or a girl?” 

“ It’s a boy baby,” answered the child. 

“ Does the woman take good care of it ?” 

“ Oh dear, no ! She lets it sit on the floor ’most all 
the time, and it cries so that I often go up and nurse it. 
The woman lives in the room over ours.” 

Where do you live ?” 

In Grubb’s court.” 

“Will you show me. the way there after school is over?” 

The child looked up into Edith’s face with an expres- 
sion of surprise and doubt. Edith repeated her question. 

“ I guess you’d better not go,” was answered, in a voice 
that meant all the words e:^pressed. 

“Why not?” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


185 


“It isn’t a good place.” 

“ But you live there ?” 

“ Yes, but nobody’s going to trouble me.” 

“ Nor me,” said Edith. 

“ Oh, but you don’t know what kind of a place it is, 
nor what dreadful people live there.” 

“I could get a policeman to go with me, couldn’t I?” 

“ Yes, maybe you could, or Mr. Paulding, the mission- 
ary. He goes about everywhere.” 

“Where can I find Mr. Paulding?” 

“ At the mission in Briar street.” 

“ You’ll show me the way there after school?” 

“ Oh yes ; it isn’t a nice place for you to go, but I guess 
nobody’ll trouble you.” 

After the school closed, Edith, guided by the child, 
made her way to the Briar st. mission-house. As she entered 
the narrow street in which it was situated, the aspect of 
things was so strange and shocking to her eyes that she 
felt a chill creep to her heart. She had never imagined 
anything so forlorn and squalid, so wretched and com- 
fortless. Miserable little hovels, many of them no bet- 
ter than pig-styes, and hardly cleaner within, were 
crowded together in all stages of dilapidation. Windows 
with scarcely a pane of glass, the chilly air kept out by 
old hats, bits of carpet or wads of newspaper, could be 
seen on all sides, with here and there, showing some 
remains of an orderly habit, a broken pane closed with 
a smooth piece of paper pasted to the sash. Instinct- 
ively she paused, oppressed by a sense of fear. 

“It’s only halfway down,” said the child. “We’ll go 
16 * 


186 


CAST ADBIFT 


quick. I guess nobody’ll speak to you. They’re afraid 
of Mr. Paulding about here. He’s down on ’em if they 
meddle with anybody that’s coming to the mission.” 

Edith, thus urged, moved on. She had gone but a few 
steps when two men came in sight, advancing toward her. 
They were of the class to be seen at all times in that 
region — debased to the lowest degree, drunken, ragged, 
bloated, evil-eyed, capable of any wicked thing. They 
were singing when they came in sight, but checked their 
drunken mirth as soon as they saw Edith, whose heart 
sunk again. She stopped, trembling. 

“ They’re only drunk,” said the child. “ I don’t believe 
they’ll hurt you.” 

Edith rallied herself and walked on, the men coming 
closer and closer. She saw them look at eaoh other with 
leering eyes, and then at her in a way that made her 
shiver. When only a few paces distant, they paused, and 
with the evident intention of barring her farther progress. 

“ Good-afternoon, mi^s,” said one of them, with a low 
bow. “ Can we do anything for you ?” 

The pale, frightened face of Edith was noticed by the 
other, and it touched some remnant of manhood not yet 
wholly extinguished. 

^‘Let her alone, you miserable cuss!” he cried, and 
giving his drunken companion a shove, sent him stagger- 
ing across the street. This made the way clear, and Edith 
sprang forward, but she had gone only a few feet when 
she came face to face with another, obstruction even more 
frightful, if possible, than the first. A woman with a 
red, swollen visage, black eye, soiled, tattered, drunk, with 


CAST ADRIFT 


187 


arms wildly extended, came rushing up to her. The child 
gave a scream. The wretched creature caught at a shawl 
worn by Edith, and was dragging it from her shoulders, 
when the door of one of the houses flew open, and a 
woman came out hastily. Grasping the assailant, she 
hurled her across the street with the strength of a giant. 

“ We’re going to the mission,” said the child. 

“It’s just down there. Go ’long. I’ll stand here and 
see that no one meddles with you again.” 

Edith faltered her thanks, and went on. 

“ That’s the queen,” said her companion. 

“ The queen !” Edith’s hasty tones betrayed her sur- 
prise. 

“ Yes ; it’s Norah. They’re all afraid of her. I’m 
glad she saw.us. She’s as strong as a man.” 

In a few minutes they reached the mission, but in 
those few minutes Edith saw more to sadden the heart, 
more to make it ache for humanity, than could be de- 
scribed in pages. 

The missionary was at home. Edith told him the pur- 
pose of her call and the locality she desired to visit. 

“ I wanted to go alone,” she remarked, “ but this little 
girl, who is in my class at the sewing-school, said it 
wouldn’t be safe, and that you would go with me.” 

“ I should be sorry to have you go alone into Grubb’s 
court,” said the missionary, kindly, and with concern in 
his voice, “ for a worse place can hardly be found in the 
city — I was going to say in the world. You will be safe 
with me, however. But why do you wish to visit Grubb’s 
court? Perhaps I can do all that is needed.” 


188 


CAST ADRIFT, 


“ This little girl, who lives in there, has been telling liie 
about a poor neglected baby that her mother says has no 
doubt been stolen, and — ^-nd — ” Edith’s voice faltered, 
but%he quickly gained steadiness under a strong effort of 
will : “ I thought perhaps I might be able to do something 
for it — ^to get it into one of the homes, maybe. It is 
dreadful, sir, to think of little babies being neglected.” 

Mr. Paulding questioned the child who had brought 
Edith to the mission-house, and learned from her that the 
baby was merely boarded by the woman who had it in 
charge, and that she sometimes took it out and sat on the 
street, begging. The child repeated what she had said 
to Edith — that the baby was the property, so to speak, of 
two abandoned women, who paid its board. 

“ I think,” said the missionary, after some reflection, 
that if getting the child out of their hands is your pur- 
pose, you had better not go there at present. Your visit 
would arouse suspicion ; and if the two women have any- 
thing to gain by keeping the child in their possession, it 
will be at once taken to a new place. I am moving about 
in these localities all the while, and can look in upon the 
baby without anything being thought of it.” 

Tliis seemed so reasonable that Edith, who could not 
get over the nervous tremors occasioned by what she 
had already seen and encountered, readily consented to 
leave the matter for the present in Mr. Paulding’s hands. 

If you will come here to-morrow,” said the mission- 
ary, “ I will tell you all I can about the baby.” 

Out of a region “where disease, want and crime shrunk 
from common observation, and sin and death held high 


CAST ADRIFT. 


189 


carnival, Edith hurried with trembling feet, and heart 
heating so heavily that she could hear it throb, the con- 
siderate missionary going with her until she had crossed 
the boundary of this morally infected district. ^ 

Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival 
home. 

“ My child,” he exclaimed as he looked into her face, 
back to which the color had not returned since her fright 
in Briar street, “ are you sick ?” 

I don’t feel very well and she tried to pass him 
hastily in the hall as they entered the house together. 
But he laid his hand on her arm and held her back 
gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat down, 
trembling, weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for 
some moments, looking at her with .a tender concern, be- 
fore speaking. 

“ Where have you been, my dear?” he asked, at length. 
After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about 
her visit to Briar street and the shock she had received. 

You were wTong,” he answered, gravely. “ It is most 
fortunate for you that you took the child’s advice and 
called at the mission. If you had gone to Grubb’s court 
alone, you might not have come out alive.” #■ 

“ Oh no, father ! It can’t be so bad as that.” , 

“ It is just as bad as that,” he replied, with a trou- 
bled face and manner. “Grubb’s court is one of the 
traps into which unwary victims are drawn that they 
may be plundered. It is as much out of common obser- 
vation almost as the lair of a wild beast in some deep 
wilderness. I have heard it described by those who have 


190 


CAST ADRIFT. 


been there under protection of the police, and shudder to 
think of the narrow escape you have made. I don’t want 
you to go into that vile district again. It is no place for 
such as you.” 

“ There’s a poor little baby there,” said Edith, her voice 
trembling and tears filling her eyes. Then, after a brief 
struggle with her feelings, she threw herself upon her 
father, sobbing out, ‘^And oh, father, it may be my 
baby!” 

“ My poor child,” said Mr. Dinneford, not able to keep 
his voice firm — “ my poor, poor child ! It is all a wild 
dream, the suggestion of evil spirits who delight in tor- 
ment.” ^ 

“What became of my baby, father? Can you tell 
me ?” 

“ It died, Edith dear. We know that,” returned her 
father, trying to speak very confidently. But the doubt 
in his own mind betrayed itself. 

“ Do you know it ?” she asked, rising and confronting 
her father. 

“ I didn’t actually see it die. But — ^but — ” 

“ You know no more about it than I do,” said Edith ; 
“if you did, you might set my heart at rest with a word. 
But you cannot. And so I am left to my wild fears, that 
grow stronger every day. Oh, father, help me if you 
can. I must have certainty, or I shall lose my reason.’’ 

“ If you don’t give up this wild fancy, you surely will,” 
answered Mr. Dinneford, in a distressed voice. 

“ If I were to shut myself up and do nothing,” said 
Edith, with greater calmness, “I would be in a mad- 


CAST ADRIFT. 


191 


house before a week went by. My safety lies in getting 
down to the truth of this wild fancy, as you call it. It 
has taken such possession of me that nothing but cer- 
tainty can give me rest. Will you help me?” 

“ How can I help you ? I have no. clue to this sad 
mystery.” 

“ Mystery I Then you are as much in the dark as I 
am — ^know no more of what became of my baby than I 
do ! Oh, father, how could you let such a thing be done, 
and ask no questions — such a cruel and terrible thing — 
and I lying helpless and dumb? Oh, father, my inno- 
cent baby cast out like a dog to perish — nay, worse, like 
a lamb among wolves to be torn by their cruel teeth — 
and no one to put forth a hand to save ! If I only knew 
that he was dead ! If I could find his little grave and 
comfort my heart over it !” 

Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often 
permit great wrongs to be done in shrinking from con- 
flict and evading the sterner duties of life. They are 
often the faithless guardians of immortal trusts. 

There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith’s 
voice that smote painfully on her father’s heart. He 
answered feebly : 

“ What could I do ? How should I know that any- 
thing wrong was being done ? You were very ill, and 
the baby was sent away to be nursed, and then I was 
told that it was dead.” 

« Oh, father ! Sent away without your seeing it ! My 
baby ! Your little grandson ! Oh, father !” 

But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your 


192 


CAST ADRIFT. 


mother was — how impossible it is for me to do anything 
with her when she once sets herself to do a thing.” 

“Even if it be murder I” said Edith, in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“Hush, hush, my child! You must not speak so,” 
returned the agitated father. 

A silence fell between them. A wall of separation be- 
gan to grow up. Edith arose, and was moving from the 
room. ■ 

“ My daughter I” There was a sob in the father’s voice. 

Edith stopped. 

“ My daughter, we must not part yet. Come back ; sit 
down with me, and let us talk more calmly. What is 
past cannot be changed. It is with the now of this un- 
happy business that we have to do.”, 

Edith came back and sat down again, her father taking 
a seat beside her. 

“ That is just it,” she answered, with a steadiness of 
tone and manner that showed how great was the self-con- 
trol she was able to exert. “ It is with the now of this 
unhappy affair that we have to do. If I spoke strongly 
of the past, it was that a higher and intenser life might 
be given to present duty.” 

“ Let there be no distance between us. Let no wall of 
separation grow up,” said Mr. Dinneford, tenderl}^ “ I 
cannot bear to think of this. Confide in me, consult with 
me. I will help you in all possible ways to solve this 
mystery. But do not again venture alone into that dread- 
ful place. I will go with you if you think any good will 
come of it.” 


CAST ADRIFT 


193 


I must see Mr. Paulding in the morning,” said Edith, 
with calm decision. 

“ Then I will go with you,” returned Mr. Dinneford. 

Thank you, father ;” and she kissed him. “ Until then 
nothing more can be done.” She kissed him again, and 
then went to her own room. After locking the door she 
sank on her knees, leaning forward, with her face buried 
in the cushions of a chair, and did not rise for a long 
time. 

17 



CHAPTER XIV. 


O X the next morning, after some persuasion, Edith 
consented to postpone her visit to Grubb’s court until 
after her father had seen Mr. Paulding, the missionary. 

“ Let me go first and gain what information I can,” he 
urged. It may save you a fruitless errand.” 

It was not without a feeling of almost unconquerable 
repugnance that Mr. Dinneford took his way to the mis- 
sion-house, in Briar street. His tastes, his habits and his 
naturally kind and sensitive feelings all made him shrink 
from personal contact with suffering and degradation. 
He gave much time and care to the good work of help- 
ing the poor and the wretched, but did his work in boards 
and on committees, rather than in the presence of the 
needy and suffering. He was not one of those who would 
pass over to the other side and leave a wounded traveler 
to perish, but he would avoid the road to Jericho, if he 
thought it likely any such painful incident would meet 
him in the way and shock his fine sensibilities. He 
was willing to work for the downcast, the wronged, the 
suffering and the vile, but preferred doing so at a dis- 
tance, and not in immediate contact. Thus it happened 
that, although one of the managers of the Briar street 
mission and familiar with its work in a general way, he 
had never been at the mission-house — ^had never, in fact, 
194 


CAST ADRIFT. 


195 


set Kis foot within the morally plague-stricken district in 
which it stood. He had often been urged to go, but could 
not overcome his reluctance to meet humanity face to face 
in its sadder and more degraded aspects. 

Now a necessity was upon him, and he had to go. It 
was about ten o’clock in the morning when, at almost a 
single step, he passed from what seemed paradise to pur- 
gatory, the sudden contrast was, so great. There were 
but few persons in the little street where the mission was 
situated at that early hour, and most of these were chil- 
dren — ^poor, half-clothed, dirty, wan-faced, keen-eyed and 
alert bits of humanity, older by far than their natural 
years, few of them possessing any higher sense of right 
and wrong than young savages. The night’s late orgies 
or crimes had left most of their elders in a heavy morn- 
ing sleep, from which they did not usually awaken before 
midday. Here and there one and another came creeping 
out, impelled by a thirst no water could qtiench. Now it 
was a bloated, wild-eyed man, dirty and forlorn beyond 
description, shambling into sight, but disappearing in a 
moment or two in one of the dram-shops, who^se name was 
legion, and now it was a woman with the angel all gone 
out of her face, barefooted, blotched, coarse, red-eyed, 
bruised* and awfully disfigured by her vicious, drunken 
life. Her steps too made haste to the dram-shop. 

Such houses for men and women to live in as now 
stretched before his eyes in long dreary rows Mr. Dinne- 
ford had never seen, except in isolated cases of vice and 
squalor. To say that he was shocked would but faintly 
express his feelings. Hurrying along, he soon came in 


196 


CAST ADRIFT. 


sight of the missioD. At this moment a jar broke the 
quiet of the scene. Just beyond the mission-house two 
women suddenly made their appearance, one of thena 
pushing the other out upon the street. Their angry cries 
rent the air, filling it with profane and obscene oaths. 
They struggled together .for a little while, and then one 
of them, a woman with gray hair and not less than sixty 
years of age, fell across the curb with her head on the 
cobble-stones. 

As if a sorcerer had stamped his foot, a hundred 
wretched creatures, mostly women and children, seemed 
to spring up from the ground. It was like a phantasy. 
They gathered about the prostrate woman, laughing and 
jeering. A policeman who was standing at the corner 
a little way off came up leisurely, and pushing the mot- 
ley crew aside, looked down at the prostrate woman. 

“ Oh, it’s you again !” he said, in a tone of annoyance, 
taking hold of one arm and raising her so that she sat 
on the curb-stone. ^Mr. Dinneford now saw her face 
distinctly ; it was that of an old woman, but red, swollen 
and terribly marred. Her thin gray hair had fallen 
over her shoulders, and gave her a wild and crazy look. 

« Come,” said the policeman, drawing on the woman’s 
arm and trying to raise her from the ground. But she 
would not move. 

“ Come,” he said, more imperatively. 

“ What’re you going to do with me ?” she demanded. 

“I’m going to lock you up. So come along. Have 
had enough of you about here. Always drunk and in a 
row with somebody.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


197 


Her resistance was making the policeman angry. 

“It’ll take two like you to do that,” returned the 
woman, in a spiteful voice, swearing foully at the same 
time. 

At this a cheer arose from the crowd. A negro with 
a push-cart came along at the moment. 

“ Here ! I want you,” called the policeman. 

The negro pretended not to hear, and the policeman 
had to threaten him before he would stop. 

Seeing the cart, the drunken woman threw herself hack 
upon the pavement and set every muscle to a rigid strain. 
And now came one of those shocking scenes — too familiar, 
alas ! in portions of our large Christian cities — at which 
everything pure and merciful and holy in our nature 
revolts : a gray-haired old woman, so debased by drink 
and an evil life that all sense of shame and degradation 
had been extinguished, fighting with a policeman, and 
for a time showing superior strength, swearing vilely, her 
face distorted with passion, and a crowd made up chiefly 
of women as vile and degraded as herself, and of all ages 
and colors, laughing, shouting and enjoying the scene 
intensely. 

At last, by aid of the negro, the woman was lifted into 
the cart and thrown down upon the floor, her head strik- 
ing one of the sides with a sickening thud. She still 
swore and struggled, and had to be held down by the 
policeman, who stood over her, while the cart was pushed 
off to the nearest station-house, the excited crowd fol- 
lowing with shouts and merry huzzas. 

Mr. Dinneford was standing in a maze, shocked and 
17 * N 


198 


CAST ADRIFT. 


distressed by tbis little episode, wben a man at bis side 
said in a grave, quiet voice, 

“I doubt if you could see a sight just like that any- 
where else in all Christendom.’’ Then added, as he 
extended his hand, 

“ I am glad to see you here, Mr. Dinneford.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Paulding !” and Mr. Dinneford put out his 
hand and grasped that of the missionary with a nervous 
grip. “ This is awful ! I am sixty years old, but any- 
thing so shocking my eyes have not before looked upon.” 

“We see things worse than this every day,” said the 
missionary. “It is only one of the angry boils on the 
surface, and tells of the corrupt and vicious blood within. 
But I am right glad to find you here, Mr. Dinneford. 
Unless you see these things with your own eyes, it is 
impossible for you to comprehend the condition of affairs 
in this by-way to hell.” 

“Hell itself, better say,” returned Mr. Dinneford. 
“ It is hell pushing itself into visible manifestation — ^hell 
establishing itself on the earth, and organizing its forces 
for the destruction of human souls, while the churches 
are too busy enlarging their phylacteries and making 
broader and more attractive the hems of their garments 
to take note of this fatal vantage-ground acquired by 
the enemy.” 

Mr. Dinneford stood and looked around him in a dazed 
sort of way. 

“Is Grubb’s court near this?” he asked, recollecting 
the errand upon which he had come. 

“Yes.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 199 

“A young lady called to see you yesterday afternoon 
to ask about a child in that court V 

“ Oh yes ! You know the lady ?” 

“ She is my daughter. One of the poor children in her 
sewing-class told her of a neglected baby in Grubb’s court, 
and so drew upon her sympathies that she started to go 
there, but was warned by the child that it would be dan- 
gerous for a young lady like her to be seen in that den of 
thieves and harlots, and so she came to you. And now I 
am here in her stead to get your report about the baby. 
I w'ould not consent to her visiting this place again.” 

Mr. Paulding took his visitor into the mission-house, 
near which they were standing. After they were seated, 
he said, 

“I have seen the baby about which your daughter 
wished me to make inquiry. The woman who has the 
care of it is a vile creature, well known in this region — 
drunken and vicious. She said at first that it was her 
own baby, but afterward admitted that she didn’t know 
who its mother was, and that she was paid for taking care 
of it. I found out, after a good deal of talking round, 
and an interview with the mother of the child who is in 
your daughter’s sewing-class^ that a girl of notoriously 
bad character, named Pin^y Swett, pays the baby’s 
board. There’s a mystery about the child, and I am of 
the opinion that it has been stoJ/^n, or is known to be the 
oficast of some respectable family. The woman who has 
the care of it was suspicious, and seemed annoyed at my 
questions.” 

“ Is it a boy ?” asked Mr. Dinneford, 


200 


CAST ADEIFT. 


“Yes, and has a finely-formed head and a pair of 
large, clear, hazel eyes. Evidently it is of good parent- 
age. The vicious, the sensual and the depraved mark 
their oflspring with the unmistakable signs of their moral 
depravity. You cannot mistake them. But this baby 
has in its poor, wasted, suffering little face, in its well- 
balanced head and deep, almost spiritual eyes, the signs 
of a better origin.” 

It ought at once to be taken away from the woman,” 
said Mr. Dinneford, in a very decided manner, 

“ Who is to take it ?” asked the missionary. 

Mr. Dinneford was silent. 

“ Neither you nor I have any authority to do so. If I 
were to see it cast out upon the street, I might have it 
sent to the almshouse ; but until I find it abandoned or 
shamefully abused, I have no right to interfere.” 

“ I would like to see the baby,” said Mr. Dinneford, 
on whose mind painful suggestions akin to those that 
were so disturbing his daughter were beginning to intrude 
themselves. 

“ It would hardly be prudent to go there to-day,” said 
Mr. Paulding. 

“ Why not ?” 

“ It would arouse suspick>n ; and if there is anything 
wrong, the baby would drop out of sight. You would not 
find it if you went again. These people are like birds 
with their wings half lifted, and fly away at the first 
warning pf danger. As it is, I fear my visit and in- 
quiries will be quite su^cient to the cause the child’s re- 
moval to another place.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


201 


Mr. Dinneford mused for a while : 

“ There ought to be some way to reach a case like this, 
and there is, I am sure. From what you say, it is more 
than probable that this poor little waif may have drifted 
out of some pleasant home, where love would bless it 
with the tenderest care, into this hell of neglect and 
cruelty. It should be rescued on the instant. It is my 
duty — it is yours — to see that it is done, and that with- 
out delay. I will go at once to the mayor and state the 
case. He will send an officer with me, I know, and we 
will take the child by force. If its real mother then 
comes forward and shows herself at all worthy to have 
the care of it, well ; if not, I will see that it is taken care 
of. I know where to place it.” 

To this proposition Mr. Paulding had no objection to 
offer. 

“ If you take that course, and act promptly, you can 
no doubt get possession of the poor thing. Indeed, sir” — 
and the missionary spoke with much earnestness — “ if men 
of influence like yourself would come here and look the 
evil of suffering and neglected children in the face, and 
then do what they could to destroy that evil, there would 
soon be joy in heaven over the good work accomplished 
by their hands. I could give you a list of ten or twenty 
influential citizens whose will would be next to law in a 
matter like this who could in a month, if they put heart 
and hand to it, do such a work for humanity here as 
would make the angels glad. But they are too busy with 
their great enterprises to give thought and effort to a work 
like this,” 


202 


CAST ADRIFT. 


A shadow fell across the missionary’s face. There was 
a tone of discouragement in his voice. 

“ The great question is what to do,” said Mr. Dinne- 
ford. “ There are no problems so hard to solve as these 
problems of social evil. If men and women choose to 
debase themselves, who is to hinder ? The vicious heart 
seeks a vicious life. While the heart is depraved the life 
will be evil. So long as the fountain is corrupt the water 
will be foul.” 

There is a side to all this that most people do not con- 
sider,” answered Mr. Paulding. “ Self-hurt is one thing, 
hurt of the neighbor quite another. It may be ques- 
tioned whether society has a right to touch the individual 
freedom of a member in anything that affects himself 
alone. But the moment he begins to hurt his neighbor, 
whether from ill-will or for gain, then it is the duty of so- 
ciety to restrain him. The common weal demands this, 
to say nothing of Christian obligation. If a man were 
to set up an exhibition in our city dangerous to life and 
limb, but so fascinating as to attract large numbers to 
witness and participate therein, and if hundreds were 
maimed or killed every year, do you think any one would 
question the right of our authorities to repress it ? And 
yet to-day there are in our city more than twenty thou- 
sand persons who live by doing things a thousand times 
more hurtful to the people than any such exhibition could 
possibly be. And what is marvelous to think of, the 
larger part of these persons are actually licensed by the 
State to get gain by hurting, depraving and destroying 
the people. Think of it, Mr. Dinneford ! The whole 


CAST ADRIFT. 


203 


question lies in a nutshell. There is no difficulty about 
the problem. Restrain men from doing harm to each 
other, and the work is more than half done.” 

‘‘ Is not the law all the while doing this ?” 

“ The law,” was answered, “ is weakly dealing with ef- 
fect — ^how weakly let prison and police statistics show. 
Forty thousand arrests in our city for a single year, and 
the cause of these arrests clearly traced to the liquor 
licenses granted to five or six thousand persons to make 
money by debasing and degrading the people. If all of 
these were engaged in useful employments, serving, as 
every true citizen is bound to do, the common good, do 
you think we should have so sad and sickening a record ? 
No, sir! We must go back to the causes of things. 
Nothing but radical work will do.” 

“You think, then,” said Mr. Dinneford, “that the true 
remedy for all these dreadful social evils lies in restrictive 
legislation ?” 

“ Restrictive only on the principles of eternal right,” 
answered the missionary. “Man’s freedom over him- 
self must not be touched. Only his freedom to hurt 
his neighbor must be abridged. Here society has a 
right to put bonds on its members — to say to each in- 
dividual, You are free to do anything by which your 
neighbor is served, but nothing to harm him. Here 
is where the discrimination must be made ; and when 
the mass of the people come to see this, we shall have 
the beginning of a new day. There will then be hope 
for such poor wretches as crowd this region; or if 
most of them are so far lost as to be without hope, their 


204 


CAST ADRIFT. 


places, when they die, will not be filled with new recruits 
for the army of perdition.” 

“ If the laws we now have were only executed,” said 
Mr. Dinneford, “ there might be hope in our legislative 
restrictions. But the people are defrauded of justice 
through defects in its machinery. There are combina- 
tions to defeat good laws. There are men holding high 
office notoriously in league with scoundrels who prey 
upon the people. Through these, justice perpetually 
fails.” 

“ The people are alone to blame,” replied the mission- 
ary. “ Each is busy with his farm and his merchandise 
— with his own affairs, regardless of his neighbor. The 
common good is nothing, so that his own good is served. 
Each weakly folds his hands and is sorry when these 
troublesome questions are brought to his notice, but 
doesn’t see that he can do anything. Nor can the 
people, unless some strong and influential leaders rally 
them, and, like great generals, lead them to the battle. 
As I said a little while ago, there are ten or twenty men 
in this city who, if they could be made to feel their high 
responsibility — ^who, if they could be induced to look 
away for a brief period from their great enterprises and 
concentrate thought and effort upon these questions of 
social evil, abuse of justice and violations of law — would 
in a single month inaugurate reforms and set agencies to 
work that would soon produce marvelous changes. They 
need not touch the rottenness of this half-dead cafcass 
with knife or poultice. Only let them cut off the sources 
of pollution and disease, and the purified air will do the 


CAST ADRIFT. 


205 


work of restoration where moral vitality remains, or 
hasten the end in those who are debased beyond hope.” 

“ What could these men do ? Where would their work 
begin?” asked Mr. Dinneford. 

“ Their own intelligence would soon discover the way 
to do this work if their hearts were in it. Men who can 
organize and successfully conduct great financial and 
industrial enterprises, who know how to control the 
wealth and power of the country and lead the people 
almost at will, would hardly be at fault in the adjust- 
ment of a matter like this. What would be the money 
influence of ‘whisky rings’ and gambling associations, 
set against the social and money influence of these men ? 
Nothing, sir, nothing! Do you think we should long 
have over six thousand bars and nearly four hundred lot- 
tery-policy shops in our city if the men to whom I refer 
were to take the matter in hand ?” 

“Are there so many policy-shops?” asked Mr. Dinne- 
ford, in surprise. 

“ There may be more. You will find them by scores 
in every locality where poor and ignorant people are 
crowded together, sucking out their substance, and in the 
neighborhood of all the market-houses and manufacto- 
ries, gathering in spoil. The harm they are doing is 
beyond computation. The men who control this unlaw- 
ful business are rich and closely organized. They gather 
in their dishonest gains at the rate of hundreds of thou- 
sands of dollars every year, and know how and where 
to use this money for the protection of their agents in 
the work of defrauding the people, and the people are 
18 


■fc 


206 


CAST ADRIFT. 


helpless because our men of wealth and influence have 
no time to give to public justice or the suppression of 
great social wrongs. With them, as things now are, rests 
the chief responsibility. They have the intelligence, the 
weq.lth and the public confidence, and are fully equal to 
the task if they will put their hands to the work. Let 
them but lift the standard and sound the trumpet ,of 
reform, and the people will rally instantly at the call. 
It must not be a mere spasmodic effort — a public meet- 
ing with wordy resolutions and strong speeches only — but 
organized work based on true principles of social order 
and the just rights of the people.” 

“You are very much in earnest about this matter,” 
said Mr. Dinneford, seeing how excited the missionary 
had grown. 

“And so would you and every other good citizen 
become if, standing face to face, as I do daily, with this 
awful debasement and crime and suffering, you were able 
to comprehend something of its real character. If I 
could get the influential citizens to whom I have referred 
to come here and see for themselves, to look upon this 
pandemonium in their midst and take in an adequate 
idea of its character, significance and aggressive force, 
there would be some hope of making them see their duty, 
of arousing them to action. But they stand aloof, busy 
with personal and material interest, while thousands of 
men, women and children are yearly destroyed, soul and 
body, through their indifference to duty and ignorance of 
their fellows’ suffering.” 

“ It is easy to say such things,” answered Mr. Dinne- 


CAST ADBIFT, 207 

ford, who felt the remarks of Mr. Paulding as almost per- 
sonal. 

‘‘ Yes, it is easy to say them,” returned the missionary, 
his voice dropping to a lower key, “ and it may be of lit- 
tle use to say them, I am sometimes almost in despair, 
standing so nearly alone as I do with my feet on the very 
brink of this devastating flood of evil, and getting back 
only faint echoes to my calls for help. But when year 
after year I see some sheaves coming in as the reward 
of my efibrts and of the few noble hearts that work with 
me, I thank God and take courage, and I lift my voice 
and call more loudly for help, trusting that I may be 
heard by some who, if they would only come up to the 
help of the Lord against the mighty, would scatter his 
foes like chaff on the threshing-floor. But I am holding 
you b'ack from your purpose to visit the mayor ; I think 
you had better act promptly if you would get possession 
of the child. I shall be interested in the result, and will 
take it as a favor if you will call at the mission again.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


HEN Mr. Dinneford and the policeman sent by the 



» » mayor at his solicitation visited Grubb’s court, the 
baby was not to be found. The room in which it had 
been seen by Mr. Paulding was vacant. Such a room as 
it was! — low and narrow, with bare, blackened walls, 
the single jvindow having scarcely two whole panes of 
glass, the air loaded with the foulness that exhaled from 
the filth-covered floor, the only furniture a rough box and 
a dirty old straw bed lying in a corner. 

As Mr. Dinneford stood at the door of this room and 
inhaled its fetid air, he grew sick, almost faint. Step- 
ping back, with a shocked and disgusted look on his face, 
he said to the policeman, 

“ There must be a mistake. This cannot be the room.” 

Two or three children and a coarse, half-clothed woman, 
seeing a gentleman going into the house accompanied by 
a policeman, had followed them closely up stairs. 

Who lives in this room ?” asked the policeman, ad- 
dressing the woman. 

« Don’t know as anybody lives there now,” she replied, 
with evident evasion. 

« Who did live here ?” demanded the policeman. 

“ Oh, lots !” returned the woman, curtly. 


208 


CAST ADRIFT 209 

“ I want to know who lived here last,” said the police- 
man, a little sternly. 

“ Can’t say — never keep the run of ’em,” answered the 
woman, with more indifference than she felt. “ Goin’ and 
cornin’ all the while. Maybe it was Poll Davis.” 

Had she a baby ?” 

The woman gave a vulgar laugh as she replied : “ I 
rather think not.” 

“ It was Moll Fling,”- said one of the children, “ and 
she had a baby.” 

“ When was she here last ?” inquired the policeman. 
The woman, unseen by the latter, raised her fist and 
threatened the child, who did not seem to be in the least 
afraid of her, for she answered promptly : 

“ She went away about an hour ago.” 

“ And took thq baby ?” 

“ Yes. You see Mr. Paulding was here asking about 
the baby, and she got scared.” 

“ Why should that scare her ?” 

“ I don’t know, only it isn’t her baby.” 

“ How do you know that ?” 

“ ’Cause it isn’t — I know it isn’t. She’s paid to take 
care of it.” 

“Who by?” 

“ Pinky Swett.” 

“ Who’s Pinky Swett ?” 

“ Don’t you know Pinky Swett ?” and the child seemed 
half surprised. 

“Where does Pinky Swett live?” asked the police- 
man. 

18 


0 


210 


CAST ADEIFT. 


She did live next door for a while, but I don’t know 
where she’s gone.” 

Nothing beyond this could be ascertained. But having 
learned the names of the women w^ho had possession of 
the child, the policeman said there would be no difficulty 
about discovering them. It might take a little time, but 
they could not escape the vigilance of the police. 

With this assurance, Mr. Dinneford hastened from the 
polluted air of Grubb’s court, and made his way to the 
mission in Briar street, in order to have some further con- 
ference with Mr. Paulding. 

“As I feared,” said the missionary, on learning that the 
baby could not be found. “ These creatures are as keen 
of scent as Indians, and know the smallest sign of dan- 
ger. It is very plain that there is something wrong — 
that these women have no natural right to the child, and 
that they are not using it to beg with.” 

“ Do you know a woman called Pinky Swett ?” asked 
the policeman. 

“ I’ve heard of her, but do not know her by sight. 
She bears a hard reputation even here, and adds to her 
many evil accomplishments the special one of adroit rob- 
bery. A victim lured to her den rarely escapes without 
loss of watch or pocket-book. And not one in a hundred 
dares to give information, for this would expose him to 
the public, and so her crimes are covered. Pinky Swett 
is not the one to bother herself about a baby unless its 
parentage be known, and not then unless the knowledge 
can be turned to advantage.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


211 


“ The first thing to be done, then, is to find this woman,” 
said the policeman. 

“That will not be very hard work. But finding the 
baby, if she thinks you are after it, would not be so easy,” 
returned Mr. Paulding. “ She’s as cunning as a fox.” 

“We shall see. If the chief of police undertakes to 
find the baby, it won’t be out of sight long. You’d better 
confer with the mayor again,” added the policeman, ad- 
dressing Mr. Dinneford. 

“ I will do so without delay,” returned that gentleman. 

“ I hope to see you here again soon,” said the mission- 
ary as Mr. Dinneford was about going. “ If I can help 
you in any way, I shall do so gladly.” 

“ I have no doubt but that you can render good ser- 
vice.” Then, in half apology, and to conceal the real 
concern at his heart, Mr. Dinneford added, “Somehow, 
and strangely enough when I come to think of it, I have 
allowed myself to get drawn into this thing, and once in, 
the natural persistence of my character leads me to go on 
to the end. I am one of those who cannot bear to give 
up or acknowledge a defeat ; and so, having set my hand 
to this work, I am going to see it through.” 

When the little girl who had taken Edith to the mis- 
sion-house in Briar street got home and told her story, 
there was a ripple of excitement in that part of Grubb’s 
court where she lived, and a new interest was felt in the 
poor neglected baby. Mr. Paulding’s visit and inquiries 
added to this interest. It had been several days since 
Pinky Swett’s last visit to the child to see that it was 
safe. On the morning after Edith’s call at the mission 


212 


CAST ADRIFT, 


she came in about ten o’clock, and heard the news. In 
less than twenty minutes the child and the woman who 
had charge of it both disappeared from Grubb’s court. 
Pinky sent them to her own room, not many squares dis- 
tant, and then drew from the little girl who was in Edith’s 
sewing-class all she knew about that young lady. It was 
not much that the child could tell. She was very sweet 
and good and handsome, and wore such beautiful clothes, 
was so kind and patient with the girls, but she did not 
remember her name, thought it was Edith. 

“Now, see here,” said Pinky, and she put some money 
into the child’s hand ; “ I want you to find out for me 
what her name is and where she lives. Mind, you must 
be very careful to remember.” 

“What do you want to know for?” asked the little 
girl. 

“ That’s none of your business. Do what I tell you,” 
returned Pinky, with impatience ; “ and if you do it right. 
I’ll give you a quarter more. When do you go again ?” 

“ Next week, on Thursday.” 

“ Not till next Thursday I” exclaimed Pinky, in a tone 
of disappointment. 

“ The school’s only once a week.” 

Pinky chafed a good deal, but it was of no use ; she 
must wait. 

“You’ll be sure and go next Thursday?” she said. 

“ If mother lets me,” replied the child. 

“Oh, I’ll see to that; I’ll make her let you. What 
time does the school go in ?” 

“ At three o’clock.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


213 


“Very well. You wait for jlie. I’ll come round here 
at half-past two, and go with you. I want to see the 
young lady. They’ll let me come into the school and 
learn to sew, won’t they ?” 

“ I don’t know ; you’re too big, and you don’t want to 
learn.” 

“ How do you know I don’t ?” 

“Because I do.” 

Pinky laughed, and then said, 

“ You’ll wait for me?” 

“ Yes, if mother says so.” 

“All right and Pinky hurried away to take measures 
for hiding the baby from a search that she felt almost 
sure was about being made. The first thing she did was 
to soundly abuse the woman in whose care she had placed 
the hapless child for her neglect and ill treatment, both 
of which were too manifest, and then to send her away. 
Under the new aspect of afiairs she did not mean to trust 
this woman, nor indeed to trust anybody who knew any- 
thing of the inquiries which had been made about the child. 
A new nurse must be found, and she must live as far away 
from the old locality as possible. Pinky was not one in- 
clined to put things off*. Thought and act were always 
close together. Scarcely had the woman been gone ten 
minutes, before, bundling the baby in a shawl, she started 
oflT to find a safer hiding-place. This time she was more 
careful about the character and '•habits of the person 
^elected for a nurse, and the baby’s condition was greatly 
improved. The woman in whose charge she placed it 
was poor, but neither drunken nor depraved. Pinky 


214 


CAST ADRIFT, 


arranged witli her to take the care of it for two dollars 
a week, and supplied it with clean and comfortable 
clothing. Even she, wicked and vile as she was, could 
not help being touched by the change that appeared in 
the baby’s shrunken face, and in its sad but beautiful 
eyes, after its wasted little body had been cleansed and 
clothed in clean, warm garments and it had taken its 
fill of nourishing food. 

‘‘ It’s a shame, the way it has been abused,” said Pinky, 
speaking from an impulse of kindness such as rarely 
swelled in her evil heart. 

“ A crying shame,” answered the woman as she drew 
the baby close against her bosom and gazed down upon 
its pitiful face, and into the large brown eyes that were 
lifted to hers in mute appeal. 

The real motherly tenderness^ that was in this woman’s 
heart was quickly perceived by the child, who did not 
move its eyes from hers, but lay perfectly still, gazing up 
at her in a kind of easeful rest such as it had never be- 
fore known. She spoke to it in loving tones, touched its 
thin cheeks with her finger in playful caresses, kissed it 
on its lips and forehead, hugged it to her bosom ; and 
still the eyes were fixed on hers in a strange baby-won- 
der, though not the faintest glinting of a smile played on 
its lips or over its serious face. Had it never learned to 
smile ? 

At last the poor thin lips curved a little, crushing out 
the lines of sufiering, and into the eyes there came a 
loving glance in place of the fixed, wondering look that 
was almost a stare. A slight lifting of the hands, a mo- 


OAST ADRIFT. 


215 


tion of the head, a thrill through the whole body came 
next, and then a tender cooing sound. 

“Did you ever see such beautiful eyes?” said the 
woman. “ It will be a splendid baby when it has picked 
up a little,” 

“ Let it pick up as fast as it can,” returned Pinky ; 
“but mind what I say: you are to be mum. Here’s 
your pay for the first week, and you shall have it fair 
and square always. Call it your own baby, if you wall, 
or your grandson. Yes, that’s better. He’s the child of 
your dead daughter, just sent to you from somewhere out 
of town. So take good care of him, and keep your mouth 
shut. I’ll be round again in a little while.” 

And with this injunction Pinky went away. On the 
next Thursday she visited the St. John’s mission sewing- 
school in company with the little girl from Grubb’s 
court, but greatly to her disappointment Edith did not 
make her appearance. There were four or five ladies in 
attendance on the school, which, under the superintend- 
ence of one of them, a woman past middle life, with a 
pale, serious face and a voice clear and sweet, was con- 
ducted with an order and decorum not often maintained 
among a class of children such as were there gathered to- 
gether. 

It was a long time since Pinky had found herself so re- 
pressed and ill at ease. There was a spiritual atmosphere 
in the place that did not vitalize her blood. She felt a 
sense of constriction and sufibcation. She had taken her 
seat in the class taught usually by Edith, with the inten- 
tion of studying that young lady and finding out all she 


216 


CAST ADRIFT. 


could about ber, not doubting ber ability to act tbe part 
in band with perfect self-possession. But sbe bad not 
been in tbe room a minute before confidence began to 
die, and very soon sbe found berself ill at ease and con- 
scious of being out of ber place. Tbe bold, bad woman felt 
weak and abashed. An unseen sphere of purity and 
Christian love surrounded and touched ber soul with as 
palpable an impression as outward things give to tbe 
body. Sbe had something of tbe inward distress and 
pain a devil would feel if lifted into tbe pure air of 
heaven, and tbe same desire to escape and plunge back 
into tbe dense and impure atmosphere in which evil finds 
its life and enjoyment. If she bad come with any good 
purpose, it would have been different, but evil, and only 
evil, was in her heart; and when this felt tbe sphere of love 
and purity, ber breast was constricted and life seemed 
going out of her. 

It was little less than torture to Pinky for tbe short 
time sbe remained. As soon as sbe was satisfied that 
Edith would not be there, sbe threw down tbe garment on 
which sbe bad been pretending to sew, and almost ran 
from the room. 

<< Who is that girl ?” asked tbe lady who was teaching the 
class, looking in some surprise after the hurrying figure. 

“ It’s Pinky Swett,” answered the child from Grubb’s 
court. “She wanted to see our teacher.” 

“ Who is your regular teacher ?” was inquired. 

“ Don’t remember her name.” 

“ It’s Edith,” spoke up one of the girls. “Mrs. Martin 
called her that.” 


CAST ADBIFT, 


217 


What did this Pinky Swett want to see her about ?” 

“ Don’t know,” answered the child as she remembered 
the money Pinky had given her and the promise of more. 

The teacher questioned no further, but went on with 
her work in the class. 

19 




CHAPTER XVI. 


I T was past midday when Mr. Dinneford returned 
home after his fruitless search. Edith, who had been 
waiting for hours in restless suspense, heard his step in 
the hall, and ran down to meet him. 

“ Did you see the baby ?” she asked, trying to keep her 
agitation down. 

Mr. Dinneford only shook his head. 

« Why not, father ?” Her voice choked. 

« It could not be found.” 

“ You saw Mr. Paulding ?” 

«Yes.’% 

« Didn’t he find the baby ?” 

«Oh yes. But when I went to Grubb’s court this 
morning, it was not there, and no one could or would give 
any information about it. As the missionary feared, those 
having possession of the baby had taken alarm and re- 
moved it to another place. But I have seen the mayor 
and some of the police, and got them interested. It will 
not be possible to hide the child for any length of time.” 
<< You said that Mr. Paulding saw it?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What did he say ?” Edith’s voice trembled as she 
asked the question. 

“ He thinks there is something wrong.” 

218 


CAST ADBIFT. 


219 


“ Did lie tell you liow tlie baby looked 

“ He said that it bad large, beautiful brown eyes.” 

Edith clasped her hands, and drew them tightly against 
her bosom. 

“ Oh, father ! if it should be my baby !” 

“ My dear, dear child,” said Mr. Dinneford, putting 
his arms about Edith and holding her tightly, “you 
torture yourself with a wild dream. The thing is im- 
possible.” 

“ It is somebody’s baby,” sobbed Edith, her face on her 
father’s breast, “ and it may be mine. Who knows ?” 

“We will do our best to find it,” returned Mr. Dinne- 
ford, “ and then do what Christian charity demands. I 
am in earnest so far, and will leave nothing undone, you 
may rest assured. The police have the mayor’s instruc- 
tions to find the baby and give it into my care, and I do 
not think we shall have long to wait.” » 

An ear they thought not of, heard all this. Mrs. Din- 
neford’s suspicions had been aroused by many things in 
Edith’s manner and conduct of late, and she had watched 
her every look and word and movement with a keenness 
of observation that let nothing escape. Careful as her 
husband and daughter were in their interviews, it was im- 
possible to conceal anything from eyes that never failed 
in watchfulness. An unguarded word here, a look of 
mutual intelligence there, 4 sudden silence when she ap- 
peared, an' unusual soberness of demeanor and evident 
absorbed interest in something they were careful to con- 
ceal, had the effect to quicken all Mrs. Dinneford’s alarms 
and suspicions. 


220 


CAST ADRIFT. 


Slie had seen from the top of the stairs a brief but ex- 
cited interview pass between Edith and her father as the 
latter stood in the vestibule that morning, and she had 
noticed the almost wild look on her daughter’s face as 
she hastened back along the hall and ran up to her room. 
Here she stayed alone for over an hour, and then came 
down to the parlor, where she remained restless, moving 
about or standing by the window for a greater part of the 
morning. 

There was something more than usual on hand. Guilt 
in its guesses came near the truth. "What could all this 
mean, if it had not something to do with the cast-off 
baby ? Certainty at last came. She was in the dining- 
room when Edith ran down to meet her father in the hall, 
and slipped noiselessly and unobserved into one of the 
parlors, where, concealed by a curtain, she heard every- 
thing that passed between her husband and daughter. 

Still as death she stood, holding down the strong pulses 
of her heart. From the hall Edith and her father 
turned into one of the parlors — the same in which Mrs. 
Dinneford was concealed behind the curtain — and sat 
down. 

“It had large brown eyes?” said Edith, a yearning 
tenderness in her voice. 

“ Yes, and a finely-formed head, showing good parent- 
age,” returned the father. 

“ Didn’t you find out who the women were — ^the two 
bad women the little girl told me about? If we had 
their names, the police could find them. The little girl’s 
mother must know who they are.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


221 


“We have the name of one of them,” said Mr. Dinne- 
ford. “ She is called Pinky Swett, and it can’t be long 
before the police are on her track. She is said to be a 
desperate character. Nothing more can be done now; 
we must wait until the police work up the affair. I will 
call at the mayor’s office in the morning and find out 
what has been done.” 

Mrs. Dinneford heard no more. The bell rang, and 
her husband and daughter left the parlor and went 
up stairs. The moment they were beyond observation 
she glided noiselessly through the hall, and reached her 
chamber without being noticed. Soon afterward she 
came down, dressed for visiting, and went out hastily, 
her veil closely drawn. Her manner was hurried. De- 
scending the steps, she stood for a single moment, as if 
hesitating which way to go, and then moved off rapidly. 
Soon she had passed out of the fashionable neighborhood 
in which she lived. After this she walked more slowly, 
and with the air of one whose mind was in doubt or hesi- 
tation. Once she stopped, and turning about, slowly 
retraced her steps for the distance of a square. Then 
she wheeled around, as if from some new and strong 
resolve, and went on again. At last she paused before a 
respectable-looking house of moderate size in a neighbor- 
hood remote from the busier and more thronged parts of 
the city. The shutters were all bowed down to the par- 
lor, and the house had a quiet, unobtrusive look. Mrs. 
Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up and down 
the street, and then -hurriedly ascended the steps and 
rang the bell. 


222 


CAST ABBIFT. 


‘‘Is Mrs. Hoyt in ?” she asked of a stupid-looking girl 
who came to the door. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” was answered. 

“Tell her a lady wants to see her;” and she passed 
into the plainly-furnished parlor. There were no pictures 
on the walls nor ornaments on the mantel-piece, nor any 
evidence of taste — nothing home-like — in the shadowed 
room, the atmosphere of which was close and heavy. 
She waited here for a few moments, when there was a rus- 
tle of garments and the sound of light, quick feet on the 
stairs. A small, dark-eyed, sallow-faced woman entered 
the parlor. 

“ Mrs. Bray — no, Mrs. Hoyt.” 

“ Mrs. Hinneford ;” and the two women stood face to 
face for a few moments, each regarding the other keenly. 

“Mrs. Hoyt — don’t forget,” said the former, with a 
warning emphasis in her voice. “ Mrs. Bray is dead.” 

In her heart Mrs. Dinneford wished that it were in- 
deed so. 

“ Anything wrong ?” asked the black-eyed little woman. 

“Do you know a Pinky Swett?” asked Mrs. Dinne- 
ford, abruptly. 

Mrs. Hoyt — so we must now call her — ^betrayed surprise 
at this question, and was about answering “No,” but 
checked herself and gave a half-hesitating “Yes,” add- 
ing the question, “ What about her ?” 

Before Mrs. Dinneford could reply, however, Mrs. 
Hoyt took hold of her arm and said, “ Come up to my 
room. Walls have ears sometimes, and I will not answer 
for these.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


223 


Mrs. Dinneford went with her up stairs to a chamber 
in the rear part of the building. 

“We shall be out of earshot here,” said Mrs. Hoyt as 
she closed the door, locking it at the same time. “ And 
now tell me what’s up, and what about Pinky Swett.” 

“You know her?” 

“ Yes, slightly.” 

“ More than slightly, I guess.” 

Mrs. Hoyt’s eyes flashed impatiently. Mrs. Dinneford 
saw it, and took warning. 

“ She’s got that cursed baby.” 

“ How do you know ?” 

“No matter how I know. It’s enough that I know. 
Who is she ?” 

“That question may be hard to answer. About all 
I know of her is that she came from the country a 
few years ago, and has been drifting about here ever 
since.” 

“ What is she doing with that baby ? and how did she 
get hold of it?” 

“ Questions more easily asked than answered.” 

“Pshaw! I don’t want any beating about the bush, 
Mrs. Bray.” 

“ Mrs. Hoyt,” said the person addressed. 

“ Oh, well, Mrs. Hoyt, then. We ought to understand 
each other by this time.” 

“I guess we do;” and the little woman arched her 
brows. 

“ I don’t want any beating about the bush,” resumed 
Mrs. Dinneford. “ I am here on business.” 


224 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“Very well; let’s to business, then and Mrs. Hoyt 
leaned back in her chair. ^ 

“Edith knows that this woman has the baby,” said 
Mrs. Dinneford. 

“ What !” and Mrs. Hoyt started to her feet. 

' “ The mayor has been seen, and the police are after her.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Enough that I know. And now, Mrs. Hoyt, this 
thing must come to an end, and there is not an instant to 
be lost. Has Pinky Swett, as she is called, been told . 
where the baby came from ?” 

“ Not by me.” 

“ By anybody ?” 

“ That is more than I can say.” 

“ What has become of the woman I gave it to ?” 

“ She’s about somewhere.” 

“ When did you see her ?” 

Mrs. Hoyt pretended to think for some moments, and 
then replied ; 

“ Not for a month or two.” 

“ Had she the baby then ?” 

“ No ; she was rid of it long before that.” 

“ Hid she know this Pinky Swett ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Curse the brat I If I’d thought all this trouble was 
to come, I’d have smothered it before it was half an hour 
old.” 

“ Risky business,” remarked Mrs. Hoyt. 

“ Safer than to have let it live,” said Mrs. Dinneford, a 
hard, evil expression settling around her mouth. “ And 


CAST ADRIFT. 


225 


now I want the thing done. You understand. Find 
this Pinky Swett. The police are after her, and may be 
ahead of you. I am desperate, you see. Anything but 
the discovery and possession of this child by Edith. It 
must be got out of the way. If it will not starve, it must 
drown.” 

Mrs. Dinneford’s face was distorted by the strength of 
her evil passions. Her eyes were full of fire, flashing 
now, and now glaring like those of a wild animal. 

“ It might fall out of a window,” said Mrs. Hoyt, in a 
low, even voice and with a faint smile on her lips. “ Chil- 
dren fall out of windows sometimes.” 

But don’t always get killed,” answered Mrs. Dinne- 
ford, coldly. 

‘‘Or, it might drop from somebody’s arms into the 
river — off the deck of a ferryboat, I mean,” added Mrs. 
Hoyt. 

“ That’s better. But I don’t care how it’s done, so it’s 
done.” 

“ Accidents are safer,” said Mrs. Hoyt. 

“ I guess you’re right about that. Let it be an acci- 
dent, then.” 

It was half an hour from the time Mrs. Dinneford en- 
tered this house before she came away. As she passed 
from the door, closely veiled, a gentleman whom she knew 
very well was going by on the opposite side of the street. 
From something in his manner she felt sure that he had 
recognized her, and that the recognition had caused him 
no little surprise. Looking back two or three times as 
she hurried homeward, she saw, to her consternation, that 

P 


226 


CAST ADRIFT. 


he was following her, evidently with the purpose of mak- 
ing sure of her identity. 

To throw this man off of her track was Mrs. Dinne- 
ford’s next concern. This she did by taking a street-car 
that was going in a direction opposite to the part of the 
town in which she lived, and riding for a distance of over 
a mile. An hour afterward she came back to her own 
neighborhood, but not without a feeling of uneasiness. 
Just as she was passing up to the door of her residence a 
gentleman came hurriedly around the nearest corner. 
She recognized him at a glance. It seemed as if the ser- 
vant would never answer her ring. On he came, until 
the sound of his steps was in her ears. He was scarcely 
ten paces distant when the door opened and she passed in. 
AVhen she gained her room, she sat down faint and 
trembling. Here was a new element in the danger and 
disgrace that were dogging her steps so closely. 

As we have seen, Edith did not make her appearance 
at the mission sewing-school on the following Thursday, 
nor did she go there for many weeks afterward. The 
wild hope that had taken her to Briar street, the nervous 
strain and agitation attendant on that visit, and the re- 
action occasioned by her father’s failure to get possession 
of the baby, were too much for her strength, and an utter 
prostration of mind and body was the consequence. There 
was no fever nor sign of any active disease — only weak- 
ness, Nature’s enforced quietude, that life and reason 
might be saved. ^ 








THE STRAY KITTEN 


Spo page 243 


CHAPTER XVII. 


T he police were at fault. They found Pinky Swett, 
but were not able to find the baby. Careful as they 
were in their surveillance, she managed to keep them on 
the wrong track and to baffle every efibrt to discover 
what had been done with the child. 

In this uncertainty months went by. Edith came up 
slowly from her prostrate condition, paler, sadder and 
quieter, living in a kind of waking dream. Her father 
tried to hold her back from her mission work among the 
poor, but she said, “ I must go, father ; I will die if I do 
not.” 

And so her life lost itself in charities. Xow and then 
her mother made an effort to draw her into society. She 
had not yet given up her ambitiou, nor her hope of one 
day seeing her daughter take social rank among the high- 
est, or what she esteemed the highest. But her power 
over Edith was entirely gone. She might as well have 
set herself to turn the wind from its course as to infiuence 
her in anything. It was all in vain. Edith had dropped 
out of society, and did not mean to go back. She had no 
heart for anything outside of her home, except the Chris- 
tian work to which she had laid her hands. 

The restless, watchful, suspicious manner exhibited for 
a long time by Mrs. Dinneford, and particularly noticed 

227 


228 


CAST ADRIFT. 


by Edith, gradually wore off. She grew externally more 
like her old self, but with something new in the expres- 
sion of her face when in repose, that gave a chill to the 
heart of Edith whenever she saw its mysterious record, 
that seemed in her eyes only an imperfect effort to conceal 
some guilty secret. ^ 

Thus the mother and daughter, though in daily per- 
sonal contact, stood far apart — were internally as distant 
from each other as the antipodes. 

As for Mr. Dinneford, what he had seen and heard on 
his first visit to Briar street had aroused him to a new 
and deeper sense of his duty as a citizen. Against all 
the reluctance and protests of his natural feelings, he had 
compelled himself to stand face to face with the appalling 
degradation and crime that festered and rioted in that 
almost Heaven-deserted region. He had heard and read 
much about its evil condition ; but when, under the pro- 
tection of a policeman, he w'ent from house to house, from 
den to den, through cellar and garret and hovel, comfort- 
less and filthy as dog-kennels and pig-styes, and saw the 
sick and suffering, the utterly vile and debauched, starv- 
ing babes and children with feces marred by crime, and 
the legion of harpies who were among them as birds of 
prey, he went back to his home sick at heart, and with a 
feeling of helplessness and hopelessness out of which he 
found it almost impossible to rise. 

We cannot stain our pages with a description of what 
he saw. It is so vile and terrible, alas, so horrible, that 
few would credit it. The few imperfect glimpses of 
life in that region which we have already given are sad 


CAST ADRIFT. 


229 


enough and painful enough, hut they only hint at the real 
truth. 

“What can be done?” asked Mr. Dinneford of the 
missionary, at their next meeting, in a voice that revealed 
his utter despair of a remedy. “ To me it seems as if 
nothing but fire could purify this region.” 

“ The causes that have produced this would soon create 
another as bad,” was answered. 

“ What are the causes ?” 

“ The primary cause,” said Mr. Paulding, “ is the efibrt 
of hell to establish itself on the earth for the destruction 
of human souls ; the secondary cause lies in the indiffer- 
ence and supineness of the people. ‘ While the husband- 
men slept the enemy sowed tares.^ Thus it was of old, 
and thus it is to-day. The people are sleeping or indif- 
ferent, the churches are sleeping or indifferent, while the 
enemy goes on sowing tares for the harvest of death.” 

“Well may you say the harvest of death,” returned 
Mr. Dinneford, gloomily. . 

“And hell,” added the missionary, with a stern em- 
phasis. “ Yes, sir, it is the harvest of death and hell 
that is gathered here, and such a full harvest! There is 
little joy in heaven over the sheaves that are garnered in 
this accursed region. What hope is there in fire, or any 
other purifying process, if the enemy be permitted to go 
on soT^ing his evil seed at will ?” 

“ How will you prevent it ?” asked Mr. Dinneford. 

“ Not by standing afar off* and leaving the enemy in 
undisputed possession — not by sleeping while he sows and 
reaps and binds into bundles for the fires, his harvests 
20 


230 


CAST ADRIFT. 


of human souls! We must be as alert and wise and 
ready of hand as he ; and God being our helper, we can 
drive him from the field.” 

“ You have thought over this sad problem a great deal,” 
said Mr, Dinneford. “You have stood face to face with 
the enemy for years, and know his strength and his re- 
sources. Have you any w^ell-grounded hope of ever dis- 
lodging him from this stronghold ?” 

“ I have just said it, Mr. Dinneford. But until the 
churches and the people come up to the help of the Lord 
against the mighty, he cannot be dislodged. I am stand- 
ing here, sustained in my work by a small band of earnest 
Christian men and women, like an almost barren rock in 
the midst of a down-rushing river on whose turbulent sur- 
face thousands are being swept to destruction. The few 
we are able to rescue are as a drop in the bucket to the 
number who are lost. In weakness and sorrow, almost 
in despair sometimes, we stand on our rock, with the cry 
of lost souls mingling with the cry of fiends in our ears, 
and wonder at the churches and the people, that they 
stand aloof — nay, worse, turn from us coldly often — when 
we press the claims of this worse than heathen people 
who are perishing at their very doors. 

“ Sir,” continued the missionary, warming on his theme, 
“ I was in a church last Sunday that cost its congregation 
over two hundred thousand dollars. It was an anni- 
versary occasion, and the collections for the day were to 
be given to some foreign mission. How eloquently the 
preacher pleaded for the heathen 1 What vivid pictures 
of their moral and spiritual destitution he drew I How 


CAST ADRIFT 


231 


full of pathos he was, even to tears ! And the congrega- 
tion responded in a contribution of over three thousand 
dollars, to he sent somewhere, and to be disbursed by some- 
body of whom not one in a hundred of the contributors 
knew anything or took the trouble to inform themselves. 
I felt sick and oppressed at such a waste of money and 
Christian sympathy, when heathen more destitute and de- 
graded than could be found in any foreign land were dying 
at home in thousands every year, unthought of and uncared 
for. I gave no amens to his prayers — I could not. They 
W'ould have stuck in my throat. I said to myself, in bit- 
terness and anger, ^ How dare a watchman on the walls 
of Zion point to an enemy afar off, of whose move- 
ments and power and organization he knows but little, 
while the very gates of the city are being stormed and 
its walls broken down?’ But you must excuse me, 
Mr. Dinneford. I lose my calmness sometimes when 
tliese things crowd my thoughts too strongly. I am 
human, like the rest, and weak, and cannot stand in the 
midst of this terrible wickedness and suffering year after 
year without being stirred by it to the very inmost of my 
being. In my intense absorption I can see nothing else 
sometimes.” 

He paused for a little while, and then said, in a quiet, 
business way. 

In seeking a remedy for the condition of society found 
here, we must let common sense and a knowledge of 
human nature go hand in hand with Christian charity. 
To ignore any of these is to make failure certain. If the 
whisky- and policy-shops were all closed, the task would 


232 


CAST ADRIFT. 


be easy. In a single month the transformation would be 
marvelous. But we cannot hope for this, at least not for 
a long time to come — not until politics and whisky are 
divorced, and not until associations of bad men cease to 
be strong enough in our courts to set law and justice at 
defiance. Our work, then, must be in the face of these 
baleful influences.” 

“ Is the evil of lottery-policies so great that you class 
it with the curse of rum ?” asked Mr. Dinneford. 

“ It is more concealed, but as all-pervading and almost 
as disastrous in its eflTects. The policy-shops draw from the 
people, especially the poor and ignorant, hundreds of thou- 
sands of dollars every year. There is no more chance of 
thrift for one who indulges in this sort of gambling than 
there is for one who indulges in drink. The vice in either 
case drags its subject down to want, and in most cases to 
crime. I could point you to women virtuous a year ago, but 
who now live abandoned lives ; and they w^ould tell you, 
if you would question them, that their way downward was 
through the policy-shops. To get the means of securing 
a hoped-for prize — of getting a hundred or two hundred 
dollars for every single one risked, and so rising above 
want or meeting some desperate exigency — virtue was 
sacrificed in an evil moment.” 

“The whisky-shops brutalize, benumb and debase or 
madden with cruel and murderous passions; the policy- 
shops, more seductive and fascinating in their allurements, 
lead on to as deep a gulf of moral ruin and hopeless de- 
pravity. I have seen the poor garments of a dying child 
sold at a pawn-shop for a mere trifle by its infatuated 


CAST ADRIFT. 


233 


mother, and the money thrown away in this kind of gamb- 
ling. Women sell or pawn their clothing, often sending 
their little children to dispose of these articles, while they 
remain half clad at home to await the daily drawings and 
receive the prize they fondly hope to obtain, hut which 
rarely, if ever, comes. 

“ Children learn early to indulge this vice, and lie and 
steal in order to obtain nioney to gratify it. You would 
be amazed to see the scores of little boys and girls, white 
and black, who daily visit the policy-shops in this neigh- 
borhood to put down the pennies they have begged or 
received for stolen articles on some favorite numbers — 
quick-witted, sharp, eager little wretches, who talk the 
lottery slang as glibly as older customers. What hope 
is there in the future for these children ? Will their edu- 
cation in the shop of a policy-dealer fit them to become 
honest, industrious citizens?’’ 

All this was so new and dreadful to Mr. Dinneford 
that he was stunned and disheartened ; and when, after 
an interview with the missionary that lasted over an 
hour, he went away, it was with a feeling of utter dis- 
couragement. He saw little hope of making head against 
the flood of evil that was devastating this accursed region. 

20 * 


f 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


M rs. HOYT, alias Bray, found Pinky Swett, but she 
did not find the poor cast-off baby. Pinky ha‘d 
resolved to make it her own capital in trade. She par- 
leyed and trified with Mrs. Hoyt week after week, and 
each did her best to get down to the other’s secret, but 
in vain. Mutually bafiled, they parted at last in bitter 
anger. 

One day, about two months after the interview between 
Mrs. Dinneford and Mrs. Hoyt described in another chap- 
ter, the former received in an envelope a paragraph cut 
from a newspaper. It read as follows : 

“ A Child Drowned. — ^A sad accident occurred yes- 
terday on board the steamer Fawn as she was going down 
the river. A woman was standing with a child in her 
arms near the railing on the lower deck forward. Sud- 
denly the child gave a spring, and was out of her arms 
in a moment. She caught after it frantically, but in 
vain. Every efibrt was made to recover the child, but 
all proved fruitless. It did not rise to the surface of the 
water.” 

Mrs. Dinneford read the paragraph twice, and then 
tore it into little bits. Her mouth set itself sternly. A 
long sigh of relief came up from her chest. After a while 

234 


CAST ADRIFT 


235 


tlie hard lines began slowly to disappear, giving place to 
a look of satisfaction and comfort, 

“ Out of my way at last,” she said, rising and begin- 
ning to move about the room. But the expression of 
relief and confidence which had come into her face soon 
died out. The evil counselors that lead the soul into sin 
become its tormentors after the sin is committed, and tor- 
ture it with fears. So 'tortured they this guilty and 
wretched woman at every opportunity. They led her on 
step by step to do evil, and then crowded her mind with 
suggestions of perils and consequences the bare thought 
of which filled her with terror. 

It was only a few weeks after this that Mrs. Dinneford, 
while looking over a morning paper, saw in the court 
record the name of Pinky Swett. This girl had been 
tried for robbing a man of his pocket-book, containing 
five hundred dollars, found guilty, and sentenced to prison 
for a term of two years. 

“ Good again !” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with satis- 
faction. “ The wheel turns.” 

After that she gradually rose above the doubts and 
dread of exposure that haunted her continually, and set 
herself to work to draw her daughter back again into 
society. But she found her influence over Edith entirely 
gone. Indeed, Edith stood so far away from her that she 
seemed more like a stranger than a child. 

Two or three times had Pinky Swett gone to the mis- 
sion sewing-school in order to get a sight of Edith. Her 
purpose was to follow her home, and so find out her name 
and where she lived. With this knowledge in her pos- 


236 


CAST ADBIFT. 


session, slie meant to visit Mrs. Bray, and by a sudden 
or casual mention by name of Edith as the child’s 
mother throw her off her guard, and lead her to betray 
the fact if it were really so. But Edith was sick at home, 
and did not go to the school. After a few weeks the lit- 
tle girl who was to identify Edith as the person who had 
shown so much interest in the baby was taken away from 
Grubb’s court by her mother, and nobody could tell where 
to find her. So Pinky had to abandon her efforts in this 
direction, and Edith, when she was strong enough to go 
back to the sewing-school, missed the child, from whom 
she was hoping to hear something that might give a clue 
to where the poor waif had been taken. 

Up to the time of her arrest and imprisonment. Pinky 
had faithfully paid the child’s board, and looked in now 
and then upon the woman who had it in charge, to see 
that it was properly cared for. How marvelously the 
baby had improved in these two or three months ! The 
shrunken limbs were rounded into beautiful symmetry, 
and the pinched face looked full and rosy. The large 
brown eyes, in which you once saw only fear or a mys- 
tery of suffering, were full of a happy light, and the 
voice rang out often in merry child-laughter. The baby 
had learned to walk, and was daily growing more and 
more lovable. 

But after Pinky’s imprisonment there was a change. 
The woman — Mrs. Burke by name — in whose care the 
child had been placed could not afford to keep him for 
nothing. The two dollars a week received for his board 
added just enough to her income to enable her to remain 


CAST ADEIFT. 


237 


at home. But failing to receive this, she must go out for 
day’s work in families at least twice in every week. 

What, then, was to be done with little Andy, as the 
baby was called ? At first Mrs. Burke thought of get- 
ting him into one of the homes for friendless children, 
but the pleasant child had crept into her affections, and 
she could not bear the thought of giving him up. His 
presence stirred in her heart old and tender things long 
•buried out of sight, and set the past, with its better and 
purer memories, side by side with the present. She had 
been many times a mother, but her children were all 
dead but one, and she — Alas ! the thought of her, when- 
ever it came, made her heart heavy and sad. 

“ I will keep him a while and see how it comes out,” 
she said, on getting the promise of a neighbor to let 
Andy play with her children and keep an eye on him 
whenever she was out. He had grown strong, and could 
toddle about and take care of himself wonderfully well 
for a child of his age. 

And now began a new life for the baby— a life in which 
he must look out for himself and hold his own in a hand- 
to-hand struggle. He had no rights that the herd of chil- 
dren among whom he was thrown felt bound to respect ; 
and if he were not able to maintain his rights, he must 
go down helplesgly, and he did go down daily, often 
hourly. But he had will and vital force, and these 
brought him always to his feet again, and with strength 
increased rather than lost. On the days that Mrs. Burke 
went out he lived for most of the time in the little street, 
playing with the children that swarmed its pavements, 


CAST ADRIFT. 


23 ^ 

often dragged from before wheels or horses’ hoofs by a 
friendly hand, or lifted from some gutter in which he had 
fallen, dripping with mud. 

When Mrs. Burke came home on the evening of her 
first day out, the baby was a sight to see. His clothes 
were stifi* with dirt, his shoes and stockings wet, and his 
face more like that of a chimney-sweep than anything 
else. But this was not all ; there was a great lump as 
large as a. pigeon’s egg on the back of his head, a black- 
and-blue spot on his forehead and a bad cut on his 
upper lip. His joy at seeing her and the tearful cry he 
gave as he threw his arms about her neck quite over- 
came Mrs. Burke, and caused her eyes to grow dim. 
She was angry at the plight in which she found him, and 
said some hard things to the woman who had promised 
to look after the child, at which the latter grew angry in 
turn, and told her to stay at home and take care of the 
brat herself, or put him in one of the homes. 

The fresh care and anxiety felt by Mrs. Burke drew 
little Andy nearer and made her reject more decidedly 
the thought of giving him up. She remained at home 
on the day following, but did not find it so easy as before to 
keep the baby quiet. He had got a taste of the free, wild 
life of the street, of its companionship and excitement, 
and fretted to go out. Toward evening she put by her 
work and went on the pavement with Andy. It was 
swarming with children. At the sight of them he began 
to scream with pleasure. • Pulling his hand free from that 
of Mrs. Burke, he ran in among them, and in a moment 
after was tumbled over on the pavement. His head 


CAST ADRIFT. 


^39 

got a hard knock, but he didn’t seem to mind it, for he 
scrambled to his feet and commenced tossing his hands 
about, laughing and crying out as wildly as the rest. 
In a little while, over he was knocked again, and as he 
fell one of the children stepped on his hand and hurt 
him so that he screamed with pain. Mrs. Burke caught 
him in her arms ; but when he found that she was going 
to take him in the house, he stopped crying and strug- 
gled to get down. He was willing to take the knocks 
and falls. The pleasure of this free life among children 
was more to him than any of the suffering it brought. 

On the next day Mrs. Burke had to go out again. An- 
other neighbor promised to look after Andy. When she 
returned at night, she found things worse, if anything, 
than before. The child was dirtier, if that were possible, 
and there were two great lumps on his head, instead of 
one. He had been knocked down by a horse in the street, 
escaping death by one of the narrowest of chances, and 
had been discovered and removed from a ladder up which 
he had climbed a distance of twenty feet. 

What help was there ? None that Mrs. Burke knew, 
except to give up the child, and she was not unselfish 
enough for this. The thought of sending him away was 
always attended with pain. It would take the light out 
of her poor lonely life, into which he had brought a few 
stray sunbeams. 

She could not, she would not, give him up. He must 
take his chances. Ah, but they were hard chances! 
Children mature fast under the stimulus of street-train- 
ing. Andy had a large brain and an active, nervous or- 


240 


CAST ADRIFT. 


ganization. Life in the open air gave vigor and hard- 
ness to his body. As the months went by he learned 
self-reliance, caution, self-protection, and took a good 
manj^essons in the art of aggression. A rapidly-grow- 
ing child needs a large amount .of nutritious food to sup- 
ply waste and furnish material for the daily-increasing 
bodily structure. Andy did not get this. At two years 
of age he had lost all the roundness of babyhood. His 
limbs were slender, his body thin and his face colorless 
and hungry-looking. 

About this time — that is, when Andy was two years 
old — Mrs. Burke took sick and died. She had been fail- 
ing for several months, and unable to earn sufficient even 
to pay her rent. But for the help of neighbors and an 
occasional supply of food or fuel from some public 
charity, she would have starved. At her death Andy 
had no home and no one to care for him. One pitying 
neighbor after another would take him in at night, or let 
him share a meal with her children, but beyond this he 
was utterly cast out and friendless. It was summer-time 
when Mrs. Burke died, and the poor waif was spared for 
a time the suffering of cold. 

Now and then a mother’s heart would be touched, and 
after a half-reluctantly given supper and a place where he 
might sleep for the night would mend and wash his soiled 
clothes and dry them by the fire, ready for morning. 
The pleased look that she saw in his large, sad eyes — for 
they had grown wistful and sad since the only one he had 
known as a mother died — was always her reward, and 
something not to be put out of her memory. Many of 


CAST ADRIFT. 


241 


the children took kindly to Andy, and often supplied him 
with food. 

“ Andy is so hungry, mamma ; can’t I take him some- 
thing to eat?” rarely failed to bring the needed bread for 
the poor little cast-adrift. - And if he was discovered now 
and then sound asleep in bed with some pitying child 
who had taken him in stealthily after dark, few were 
hard-hearted enough to push him into the street, or make 
him go down and sleep on the kitchen floor. Yet this 
was not unfrequently don^. Poverty is sometimes very 
cruel, yet often tender and compassionate. 

One day, a few months after Mrs. Burke’s death, Andy, 
who was beginning to drift farther and farther away 
from the little street, yet always managing to get back 
into it as darkness came on, that he might lay his tired 
body in some friendly place, got lost in strange localities. 
He had wandered about for many hours, sitting now on 
some step or cellar-door or horse-block, watching the 
children at play and sometimes joining in their sports, 
when they would let him, with the spontaneous abandon 
of a puppy or a kitten, and now enjoying some street- 
show or attractive shop-window. There was nothing of 
the air of a lost child about him. For all that his man- 
ner betrayed, his home might have been in the nearest 
court or alley. Sd he wandered along from street to 
street without attracting the special notice of any — a 
bare-headed, bare-footed, dirty, half-clad atom of human- 
ity not three years old. 

Hungry, tired and cold, for the summer was gone and 
mid-autumn had brought its chilly nights, Andy found 
21 ^ 


242 


CAST ADBIFT. 


himself, as darkness fell, in a vile, nan^ow court, among 
some children as forlorn and dirty as himself. It was 
Grubb’s courts — ^his old home — though in his memory there 
was of course no record of the place. 

Too tired and hungry for play, Andy was sitting on the 
step of a wretched hovel, when the door opened and a 
woman called sharply the names of her two children. 
They answered a little way off. “ Come in this minute, 
and get your suppers,” she called again, and turning 
back without noticing Andy, left the door open for her 
children. The poor cast-adrift looked in and saw light 
and food and comfort — a home that made him heartsick 
with longing, mean and disordered and miserable as it 
would have appeared to your eyes and mine, reader. The 
two children, coming at their mother’s call, found him 
standing just on the threshold gazing in wistfully ; and 
as they entered, he, drawn by their attraction, went in 
also. Then, turning toward her children, the mother saw 
Andy. 

“ Out of this !” she cried, in quick anger, raising her 
hand and moving hastily toward the child. “ Off home 
with you T’ 

Andy might well be frightened at the terrible face and 
threatening words of this woman, and he was frightened. 
But he did not turn and fly, as she meant that he should. 
He had learned, young as he was, that if he were driven 
off by every rebuff, he would starve. It was only 
through importunity and perseverance that he lived. 
So he held his ground, his large, clear eyes fixed steadily 
on the woman’s face as she advanced upon him. Some- 


CAST ADRIFT. 


243 


tiling in those eyes and in the firmly-set mouth checked 
the woman’s purpose if she had meant violence, but she 
thrust him out into the damp street, nevertheless, though 
not roughly, and shut the door against him. 

Andy did not cry ; poor little baby that he was, he 
had long since learned that for him crying did no good. 
It brought him nothing. Just across the street a door 
stood open. As a stray kitten creeps in through an open 
door, so crept he through this one, hoping for shelter and 
a place of rest. 

“ Who’re you ?” growled the rough but not unkindly 
voice of a man, coming from the darkness. At the same 
moment a light gleamed out from a match, and then the 
steadier flame of a candle lit up the small room, not more 
than eight or nine feet square, and containing little that 
could be called furniture. The floor was bare. In one 
corner were some old bits of carpet and a blanket. A 
small table, a couple of chairs with the backs broken off 
and a few pans and dishes made up the inventory of 
household goods. 

As the light made all things clear in this poor room, 
Andy saw the bloodshot eyes and grizzly face of a man 
not far past middle life. ' 

“Who are you, little one?” he growled again as the 
light gave him a view of Andy’s face. This growl had 
in it a tone of kindness and welcome to the ears of Andy, 
who came forward, saying, 

“ I’m Andy.” 

“ Indeed! You’re Andy, are you?” and he reached out 
one of his hands. 


244 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“Yes; I’m Andy,” returned the child, fixing his eyes 
with a look so deep and searching on the man’s face that 
they held him as by a kind of fascination. 

“Well, Andy, where did you come from?” asked the 
man. 

“ Don’t know,” was answered. 

“ Don’t know !” 

Andy shook his head. 

“ Where do you live ?” 

“ Don’t live nowhere,” returned the child ; “ and I’m 
hungry.” 

“ Hungry?” The man let the hand he was still hold- 
ing drop, and getting up quickly, took some bread from 
a closet and set it on the old table. 

Andy did not wait for an invitation, but seized upon 
the bread and commenced eating almost ravenously. As 
he did so the man fumbled in his pockets. There were 
a few pennies there. He felt them over, counting them 
with his fingers, and evidently in some debate with him- 
self. At last, as he closed the debate, he said, with a kind 
of compelled utterance, 

“ I say, young one, wouldn’t you like some milk with 
your bread ?” 

“ Milk ! oh my ! oh goody ! yes,” answered the child, a 
gleam of pleasure coming into his face. 

“ Then you shall have some and catching up a broken 
mug, the man went out. In a minute or two he returned 
with a pint, of milk, into which he broke a piece of bread, 
and then sat watching Andy as he filled himself with the 
most delicious food he had tasted for weeks, his marred 


CAST ADRIFT. 245 

face beaming with a higher satisfaction than he had 
known for a long time. 

“ Is it good T asked the man. 

“ I bet you I’’ was the cheery answer. 

“Well, you’re a little brick,” laughed the man as he 
stroked Andy’s head. “And you don’t live anywhere?” 
“No.” 

“ Is your mother dead ?’’ 

“ Yes.” 

“ And your father ?” 

“ Hain’t got no father.” 

“ Would you like to live here?” 

Andy looked* toward the empty bowl from which he 
had made such a satisfying meal, and said, 

“ Yes.” 

“ It will hold us both. You’re not very big and as 
he said this the man drew his arm about the boy in a 
fond sort of way. 

“ I guess you’re tired,” he added, for Andy, now that 
an arm was drawn around him, leaned against it heavily. 

“ Yes, I’m tired,” said the child. 

“ And sleepy too, poor little fellow ! It isn’t much of a • 
bed I can give you, but it’s better than a door-step or a 
rubbish corner.” 

Then he doubled the only blanket he had, and made as 
soft a bed as possible. On this he laid Andy, who was 
fast asleep almost as soon as down. 

“Poor little chap!” said the man, in a tender, half- 
broken voice, as he stood over the sleeping child, candle 
in hand. “ Poor little chap I” 

21 * 


246 


CAST ADRIFT. 


The sight troubled him. He turned vfith a quick, dis- 
turbed movement and put the candle down. The light 
streaming upward into his face showed the countenance 
of a man so degraded by intemperance that everything 
attractive had died out of it. His clothes were scanty, 
worn almost to tatters, and soiled with the slime and dirt 
of many an ash-heap or gutter where he had slept off 
his almost daily fits of drunkenness. There was an air 
of irresolution about him, and a strong play of feeling in 
his marred, repulsive face, as he stood by the table on 
which he had set the candle. One hand was in his 
pocket, fumbling over the few pennies yet remaining 
there. 

As if drawn by an attraction he could not resist, his 
eyes kept turning to the spot where Andy lay sleeping. 
Once, as they came back, they rested on the mug from 
which the child had taken his supper of bread and milk. 

“ Poor little fellow I’’ came from his lips, in a tone of 
pity. 

Then he sat down by the table and leaned his head on 
his hand. His face was toward the corner of the room 
where the child lay. He still fumbled the small coins in 
his pocket, but after a while his fingers ceased to play 
with them, then his hand was slowly withdrawn from the 
pocket, a deep sigh accompanying the act. 

After the lapse of several minutes he took up the can- 
dle, and going over to the bed, crouched down and let the 
light fall on Andy’s face. The large forehead, soiled as 
it was, looked white to the man’s eyes, and the brown 
matted hair, as he drew it through his fingers, was soft 


CAST ADRIFT. 


247 


and beautiful. Memory had taken him back for years, 
and he was looking at the fair forehead and touching the 
soft brown hair of another baby. His eyes grew dim. 
He set the candle upon the floor, and putting his hands 
over his face, sobbed two or three times. 

When this paroxysm of feeling went off*, he got up with 
a steadier air, and set the light back upon the table. The 
conflict going on in his mind was not quite over, but 
another look at Andy settled the question. Stooping with 
a hurried movement, he blew out the candle, then groped 
his way over to the bed, and lying down, took the child in 
his arms and drew him close to his breast. So the morn- 
ing found them both asleep. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


M r. DIXNEFORD had become deeply interested in 
the work that was going on in Briar street, and 
made frequent visits to the mission house. Sometimes he 
took heart in the work, but oftener he suffered great dis- 
couragement of feeling. In one of his many conversa- 
tions with Mr. Paulding he said, 

“ Looking as I do from the standpoint gained since I 
came here, I am inclined to say there is no hope. The 
enemy is too strong for us.” 

“He is very strong,” returned the missionary, “but 
God is stronger, and our cause is his cause. We have 
planted his standard here in the very midst of the enemy's 
territory, and have not only held our ground for years, 
but gained some victories. If we had the people, the 
churches and the law-officers on our side, we could drive 
him out in a year. But we have no hope of this — at least 
not for a long time to come ; and so, as wisely as we can, 
as earnestly as we can, and with the limited means at our 
'Control, we are fighting the foe and helping the weak, 
and gaining a little every year.” 

“ And you really think there is gain ?” 

“ I'know it,” answered the missionary, with a ringing 
confidence in his voice. “It is by comparisons that we 
248 


CAST ADRIFT 


249 


are able to get at true results. . Come with me into our 
school-room, next door.” 

They passed from the office of the mission into the 
street. 

“These buildings,” said Mr. Paulding, “erected by 
that true Christian charity which hopeth all things, stand 
upon the very site of one of the worst dens once to be 
found in this region. In them we have a chapel for 
worship, two large and well ventilated school-rooms, where 
from two to three hundred children that would not be 
admitted into any public school are taught daily, a hos- 
pital and dispensary and bath-rooms. Let me show you 
the school. Then I will give you a measure of compari- 
son.” 

Mr. Dinneford went up to the school-rooms. He found 
them crowded with children, under the care of female 
teachers, who seemed to have but little trouble in keeping 
them in order. Such a congregation of boys and girls 
Mr. Dinneford had never seen before. It made' his heart 
ache as he looked into some of their marred and pinched 
faces, most of which bore signs of pain, suffering, want 
and evil. It moved him to tears when he heard them 
sing, led by one of the teachers, a tender hymn expressive 
of the Lord’s love for poor neglected children. 

“ The Lord Jesus came to seek and to save that which 
was lost,” said the missionary as they came down from 
the school-room, “and we are trying to do the same 
work. And that our labor is not all in vain will be evi- 
dent when I show you what this work was in the begin- 
ning. You have seen a little of what it is now.” 


250 


CAST ADBIFT. 


They went back to the office of the missionary. 

<‘It is nearly twenty years,” said Mr. Paulding, “since 
the organization of our mission. The question of what 
to do for the children became at once the absorbing one. 
The only building in which to open a Sunday-school that 
could be obtained was an old dilapidated frame house 
used as a receptacle for bones, rags, etc. ; but so forbid- 
ding was its aspect, and so noisome the stench arising from 
the putrefying bones and rotting rags, that it was feared 
for the health of those who might occupy it. However, 
it was agreed to try the effect of scraping, scrubbing, 
white-washing and a liberal use of chloride of lime. 
This was attended with such good effects that, notwith- 
standing the place was still offensive to the olfactories, the 
managers concluded to open in it our first Sabbath-school. 

“No difficulty was experienced in gathering in a suffi- 
cient number of children to compose a school ; for, excited 
by such a novel spectacle as a Sabbath-school in that re- 
gion, they came in crowds. But such a Sabbath-school 
as that first one was beyond all doubt the rarest thing of 
the kind that any of those interested in its formation had 
ever witnessed. The jostling, tumbling, scratching, pinch- 
ing, pulling of hair, little ones crying and larger ones 
punching each other’s heads and swearing most profane- 
ly, altogether formed a scene of confusion and riot that 
disheartened the teachers in the start, and made them be- 
gin to think they had undertaken a hopeless task. 

“As to the appearance of these young Ishmaelites, it 
was plain that they had rarely made the acquaintance of 
soap and water. Hands, feet and face exhibited a uni- 


CAST ADRIFT. 


251 


form crust of mud and filth. As it was necessary to ob- 
tain order, the superintendent, remembering that ‘ music 
hath charms to soothe the savage breast,’ decided to try 
its effects on the untamed group before him ; and giving 
out a line of a hymn adapted to the tune of ‘ Lily Dale,’ 
he commenced to sing. The effect was instantaneous. It 
was like oil on troubled waters. The delighted youngsters 
listened to the first line, and then joined in with such 
hearty good-will that the old shanty rang again. 

“ The attempt to engage and • lead them in prayer 
was, however, a matter of great difficulty. They seemed 
to regard the attitude of kneeling as very amusing, and 
were reluctant to commit themselves so far to the ridicule 
of their companions as to be caught in such a posture. 
After reading to them a portion of the Holy Scriptures 
and telling them of Jesus, they were dismissed, greatly 
pleased with their first visit to a Sabbath-school. 

“As for ourselves, we had also received a lesson. We 
found — ^what indeed we had expected — that the poor chil- 
dren were very ignorant, but we also found what we did 
not expect — namely, such an acute intelligence and apti- 
tude to receive instruction as admonished us of the dan- 
ger of leaving them to grow up under evil influences 
to become master-spirits in crime and pests to society. 
Many of the faces that we had just seen were very ex- 
pressive — indeed, painfully so. Some of them seemed to 
exhibit an unnatural and premature development of those 
passions whose absence makes childhood so attractive. 

“Hunger! ay, its traces were also plainly written 
there. It is painful to see the marks of hunger on the 


252 


CAST ADRIFT. 


human face, but to see the cheeks of childhood blanched 
by famine, to behold the attenuated limbs and bright 
wolfish eyes, ah ! that is a sight. 

“The organization of a day-school came next. There 
were hundreds of children in the district close about the 
mission who were wholly without instruction. They were 
too dirty, vicious and disorderly to be admitted into any 
of the public schools ; and unless some special means of 
education were provided, they must grow up in ignorance. 
It was therefore resolved to open a day-school, but to 
find a teacher with her heart in such a work was a dif- 
ficulty hard to be met; moreover, it was thought by many 
unsafe for a lady to remain in this locality alone, even 
though a suitable one should offer. But one brave and 
self-devoted was found, and one Sunday it was announced 
to the children in the Sabbath-school that a day school 
would be opened in the same building at nine o’clock on 
Monday morning. 

“ About thirty neglected little ones from the lanes and 
alleys around the mission were found at the schoolroom 
door at the appointed hour. But when admitted, very 
few of them had any idea of the purpose for which they 
were collected. The eflbrts of the teacher to seat them 
proved a failure. The idea among them seemed to be 
that each should take some part in amusing the company. 
One would jump from the back of a bench upon which 
he had been seated, while others were creeping about the 
floor ; another, who deemed himself a proficient in turn- 
ing somersaults, would be trying his skill in this way, 
while his neighbor, equally ambitious, would show the 


CAST ADRIFT. 


253 


teacher how he could stand on his head. Occasionally 
they would pause and listen to the singing of a hymn or 
the reading of a little story ; then all would be confusion 
again ; and thus the morning wore away. The first ses- 
sion having closed, the teacher retired to her home, feel- 
ing that a repetition of the scenes through which she had 
passed could scarcely he endured. 

‘‘ Two o’clock found her again at the door, and the chil- 
dren soon gathered around her. Upon entering the 
schoolroom, most of them were induced to be seated, and 
a hymn was sung which they had learned in the Sab- 
bath-school. When it was finished, the question was 
asked, ‘ Shall we pray?’ With one accord they answered, 
‘Yes.’ ‘And will you he quiet?’ They replied in the 
affirmative. All were then requested to be silent and 
cover their faces. In this posture they remained until 
the prayer was closed ; and after resuming their seats, for 
some minutes order was preserved. This was the only 
encouraging circumstance of the day. 

“For many weeks a stranger would scarcely have rec- 
ognized a school in this disorderly gathering which day 
after day met in the old gloomy building. Very many 
difficulties which we may not name were met and con- 
quered. Fights were of common occurrence. A descrip- 
tion of one may give the reader an idea of what came 
freque,ntly under our notice. 

“ A rough boy about fourteen years of age, over whom 
some influence had been gained, was chosen monitor one 
morning ; and as he was a leader in all the mischief, it 
was hoped that putting him upon his honor would assist 
22 


254 


CAST ABBIFT.' 


in keeping order. Talking aloud was forbidden. For a 
few minutes matters went on charmingly, until some one, 
tired of the restraint, broke silence. The monitor, feel- 
ing the importance of his position, and knowing of but 
one mode of redress, instantly struck him a violent blow 
upon the ear, causing him to scream with pain. In a 
moment the school was a scene of confusion, the friends 
of each boy taking sides, and before the cause of trouble 
could be ascertained most of the boys were piled upon 
each other in the middle of the room, creating sounds 
altogether indescribable. The teacher, realizing that she 
was alone, and not well understanding her influence, feared 
for a moment to interfere ; but as matters were growing 
worse, something must be done. She made an efibrt to 
gain the ear of the monitor, and asked why he did so. 
He, confldent of being in the right, answered, 

“ ‘ Teacher, he didn’t mind you ; he spoke, and I licked 
him ; and I’ll do it again if he don’t mind you.’ 

“His services were of course no longer required, al- 
though he had done his duty according to his understand- 
ing of the case. 

“ Thus it was at the beginning of this work nearly 
twenty years ago,” said the missionary. “ Now we have 
an orderly school of over two hundred children, who, but 
for the opportunity here given, would grow up without 
even the rudiments of an education. Is not this a gain 
upon the enemy ? Think of a school like this doing its 
work daily among these neglected little ones for nearly a 
score of years, and you will no longer feel as if nothing 
had been done — as if no headway had been gained. 


* CAST ADRIFT. 


255 


Think, too, of the Sabbath-school work in that time, and 
of the thousands of children who have had their memories 
filled with precious texts from the Bible, who have been 
told of the loving Saviour who came into the world and 
sufiered and died for them, and of his tender love and 
perpetual care over his children, no matter how poor and 
vile and afar ofi* from him they may be. It is impossible 
that the good seed of the word scattered here for so long 
a time should not have taken root in many hearts. We 
know that they have, and can point to scores of blessed 
instances — can take you to men and women, now good and 
virtuous people, who, but for our day- and SabbaTth-schools, 
would, in all human probability, be now among the out- 
cast, the vicious and the criminal. 

So much for what has been done among the children. 
Our work with men and women has not been so fruitful 
as might well be supposed, and yet great good has been 
accomplished even among the hardened, the desperate and 
the miserably vile and besotted. Bad as things are to- 
day — awful to see and to contemplate, shocking and dis- 
graceful to a Christian community— they were nearly as 
bad again at the time this mission set up the standard of 
God and made battle in his name. Our work began as 
a simple religious movement, with street preaching.” 

“And with what efiect?” asked Mr. Dinneford. 

“ With good effect, in a limited number of cases, I trust. 
In a degraded community like this there will always be 
some who had a different childhood from that of the 
crowds of young heathen who swarm its courts and alleys; 
some who in early life had religious training, and in 


256 


CAST ADRIFT. 


wliose memories were stored up lioly things from Scrip- 
ture ; some who have tender and sweet recollection of a 
mother and home and family prayer and service in God’s 
temples. In the hearts of such God’s Spirit in moving 
could touch and quicken and flush with reviving life 
these old memories, and through them bring conviction 
of sin, and an intense desire to rise out of the horrible 
pit into which they had fallen and the clay wherein their 
feet were mired. Angels could come near to these by 
what of good and true was to be found half hidden, but 
not erased from their book of life, and so help in the work 
of their recovery and salvation. 

But, sir, beyond this class there is small hope, I fear, 
in preaching and praying. The great mass of these 
wretched beings have had little or no early religious in- 
struction. There are but few, if any, remains of things 
pure and good and holy stored away since childhood in 
their memories to be touched and quickened by the Spirit 
oflGod. And so we must approach them in another and 
more external way. We must begin with their physical 
evils, and lessen these as fast as possible ; we must remove 
temptation from their doors, or get them as far as possible 
out of the reach of temptation, but in this work not neg- 
lecting the religious element as an agency of untold 
power. 

“Christ fed the hungry, and healed the sick, and 
clothed the naked, and had no respect unto the persons 
of men. And we, if we would lift up fallen humanity, 
must learn by his example. It is not by preaching 
and prayer and revival meetings that the true Christian 


CAST ADRIFT 


257 


philanthropist can hope to accomplish any great good 
among the people here, but by doing all in his power 
to change their sad external condition and raise them 
out of their suffering and degradation. Without some 
degree of external order and obedience to the laws of 
natural life, it is, I hold, next to impossible to plant in 
the mind any seeds of spiritual truth. There is no 
ground there. The parable of the sower that went forth 
to sow illustrates this law. Only the seed that fell on 
good ground brought forth fruit. Our true work, then, 
among this heathen people, of whom the churches take so 
little care, is first to get the ground in order for the plant- 
ing of heavenly seed. Failing in this, our hope is small.” 

“This mission has changed its attitude since the begin- 
ning,” said Mr. Dinneford. 

“Yes. Good and earnest men wrought for years with 
the evil elements around them, trusting in God’s Spirit to 
change the hearts of the vile and abandoned sinners 
among whom they preached and prayed. But there 
was little preparation of the ground, and few seeds got 
lodgment except in stony places, by the wayside and 
among thorns. Our work now is to prepare the ground, 
and in this work, slowly as it is progressing, we have great 
encouragement. Every year we can mark the signs of 
advancement. Every year we make some head against 
the enemy. Every year our hearts take courage and are 
refreshed by the smell of grasses and the odor of fiowers 
and the sight of fruit-bearing plants in once barren and 
desolate places. I'he ground is surely being made ready 
for the sower.” 

22 ^ 


E 


258 


CAST ABBIFT. 


“ I am glad to hear you speak so encouragingly/’ re- 
turned Mr. Dinneford. “ To me the case looked desper- 
ate — ^wellnigh hopeless. Anything worse than I have 
witnessed here seemed impossible.” 

“ It is only by comparisons, as I said before, that we 
can get at the true measure of change and progress,” an- 
swered the missionary. Since we have been at work in 
earnest to improve the external life of this region, we 
have had much to encourage us. True, what we have 
done has made only a small impression on the evil that 
exists here ; but the value of this impression lies in the 
fact that it shows what can be done with larger agencies. 
Double our effective force, and we can double the result. 
Increase it tenfold, and ten times as much can be done.” 

“What is your idea of this work?” said Mr. Dinne- 
ford. “ In other words, what do you think the best prac- 
tical way to purify this region ?” 

“If you draw burning brands and embers close to- 
gether, your fire grows stronger; if you scatter them 
apart, it will go out,” answered the missionary. “ Moral 
and physical laws correspond to each other. Crowd 
bad men and women together, and they corrupt and 
deprave each other. Separate them, and you limit their 
evil power and make more possible for good the influ- 
ence of better conditions. Let me give you an instance : 
A man and his wife who had lived in a wretched way in 
one of the poorest hovels in Briar street for two years, 
and who had become idle and intemperate, disappeared 
from among us about six months ago. None of their 
neighbors knew or cared niiich what had become of them. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


259 


They had two children. Last week, a^ I was passing the 
corner of a street in the south-western part of the city in 
which stood a row of small new houses, a neatly- dressed 
woman came out of a store with a basket in her hand. I 
did not know her, but by the brightening look in her 
face I saw that she knew me. 

“ ‘ Mr. Paulding,’ she said, in a pleased way, holding 
out her hand ; ‘ you don’t know me,’ she added, seeing 
the doubt in my face. ‘ I am Mrs. .’ 

“ ‘ Impossible !’ I could not help exclaiming. 

“ ‘ But it’s true, Mr. Paulding,’ she averred, a glow of 
pleasure on her countenance. ‘We’ve turned over a new 
leaf.’ 

“ ‘ So I should think from your appearance,’ I replied. 
‘ Where do you live ?’ 

“ ‘ In the third house from the corner,’ pointing to the 
neat row of small brick houses I have mentioned. ‘ Come 
and look at our new home. I want to tell you about it.’ 

“ I was too much pleased to need a second invitation. 

“ ‘ I’ve got as clean steps as my neighbors,’ she said, 
with pride in her voice, ‘ and shades to my windows, and 
a bright door-knob. It wasn’t so in Briar street. One 
had no heart there. Isn’t this nice ?’ 

“And she glanced around the little parlor we had 
entered. 

“ It was nice, compared to the dirty and disorderly place 
they had called their home in Briar street. The floor was 
covered with a new ingrain carpet. There were a small 
table and six cane-seat chairs in the room, shades at the 
windows, two or three small pictures on the walls and 


260 


CAST ADRIFT 


some trifling ornaments on the mantel. Everything was 
clean and the air of the room sweet. 

“ ‘ This is my little Emma/ she said as a cleanly-dressed 
child came into the room ; ‘ you remember she was in the 
school.’ 

“ I did remember her as a ragged, dirty-faced child, 
forlorn and neglected, like most of the children about 
here. It was a. wonderful transformation. 

“‘And now/ I said, ‘tell me how all this has come 
about.’ 

“‘Well, you see, Mr. Paulding,’ she answered, ‘there 
was no use in John and me trying to be anything down 
there. It was temptation on every hand, and we were 
Weak and easily tempted. There was nothing to make us 
look up or to feel any pride. We lived like our neigh- 
bors, and you know what kind of a way that was. 

“‘One day John said to me, “Emma,” says he, “it’s aw- 
ful, the way we’re living ; we’d better be dead.” His voice 
was shaky-like, and it kind of made me feel bad. “ I 
know it, John,” said I, “but what can we do ?” “ Go ’way 
from here,” he said. “ But where ?” I asked. “ Anywhere. 
I’m not all played out yet;” and he held up his hand and 
shut it tight. “ There’s good stufiT in me yet, and if you’re 
willing to make a new start, I am.” I put my hand in 
his, and said, “ God helping me, I will try, John.” He 
went off that very day and got a room in a decent neigh- 
borhood, and we moved in it before night. We had only 
one cart-load, and a wretched load of stuff it was. But 
I can’t tell you how much better it looked when we got 
it into our new room, the walls of which were nicely 


CAST ADRIFT. 


261 


papered, and the paint clean and white. I fixed up every- 
thing and made it as neat as possible. John was so pleased. 
“ It feels something like old times,” he said. He had been 
knocking about a good while, pickiug up odd jobs and 
not half working, but he took heart now, quit drinking 
and went to work in good earnest, and was soon making 
ten dollars a week, every cent of which he brought home. 
He now gets sixteen dollars. We haven’t made a back 
step since. But it wouldn’t have been any use trying if 
we’d stayed in Briar street. Pride helped us a good deal 
in the beginning, sir. I was ashamed not to have my 
children looking as clean as my neighbor’s, and ashamed 
not to keep things neat and tidy-like. I didn’t care any- 
thing about it in Briar street.’ 

“ I give you this instance, true in nearly every particu- 
lar,” said the missionary, “ in order to show you how in- 
curable is the evil condition of the people here ; unless we 
can get the burning brands apart, they help to consume 
each other.” 

“ But how to get them apart ? that is the difficult ques- 
tion,” said Mr. Dinneford. 

“ There are two ways,” was replied — “ by forcing the 
human brands apart, and by interposing incombustible 
things between them. As we have no authority to apply 
force, and no means at hand for its exercise if we had 
the authority, our work has been in the other direction. 
We have been trying to get in among these burning 
brands elements that would stand the fire, and so lessen 
the ardor of combustion.” 

“ How are you doing this ?” 


262 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ By getting better houses for tbe people to live in. 
Improve the house, make it more sightly and convenient, 
and in most cases you will improve the person who lives 
in it. He will not kindle so easily, though he yet remain 
close to the burning brands.” 

“And are you doing this?” 

“A little has been done. Two or three years ago a 
building association was organized by a few gentlemen of 
means, with a view to the purchase of property in this 
district and the erection of small but good houses, to be 
rented at moderate cost to honest and industrious people. 
A number of such houses have already been built, and 
they are now occupied by tenants of a better class, whose 
influence on their neighbors is becoming more and more 
apparent every day. Brady street — once the worst place 
in all this district — ^has changed wonderfully. There is 
scarcely a house in the two blocks through which it runs 
that does not show some improvement since the association 
pulled down half a dozen of its worst frame tenements 
and put neat brick dwellings in their places. It is no 
uncommon thing now to see pavement sweeping and 
washing in front of some of the smallest and poorest of 
the houses in Brady street where two years ago the dirt 
would stick to your feet in passing. A clean muslin half 
curtain, a paper shade or a pot of growing plants will 
meet your eyes at a window here and there as you pass 
along. The thieves who once harbored in this street, and 
hid their plunder in cellars and garrets until it could be 
sold or pawned, have abandoned the locality. They could 
not live side by side with honest industry.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


263 


“ And all tMs cHange may be traced to tbe work of 
our building association, limited as are its means and 
balf-bearted as are its operations. The worst of our popu- 
lation — the common herd of thieves, beggars and vile 
women who expose themselves shamelessly on the street — 
are beginning to feel less at home and more in danger of 
arrest and exposure. The burning brands are no longer 
in such close contact, and so the fires of evil are raging 
less fiercely. Let in the light, and the darkness flees. 
Establish the good, and evil shrinks away, weak and 
abashed.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


S O the morning found them fast asleep. The man 
awoke first and felt the" child against his bosom, soft 
and warm. It was some moments ere he understood what 
it meant. It seemed as if the wretched life he had been 
leading was all a horrible dream out of which he had 
awakened, and that the child sleeping in his bosom was 
his own tenderly-loved baby. But the sweet illusions 
faded away, and the hard, sorrowful truth stood out 
sternly before him. 

Then Andy’s eyes opened and looked into his face. 
There was nothing scared in the look — hardly an expres- 
sion of surprise. But the man saw a mute appeal and a 
tender confidence that made his heart swell and yearn 
toward the homeless little one. 

Had a nice sleep ?” he asked, in a tone of friendly 
encouragement. 

Andy nodded his head, and then gazed curiously about 
the room. 

“Want some breakfast?” 

The hungry face lit up with a flash of pleasure. 

“ Of course you do, little one.” 

The man was on his feet by this time, with his hand 
in his pocket, from which he drew a number of pennies. 
These he counted over carefully twice. The number was 
264 


CAST ADRIFT. 


265 


just ten. If there had been only himself to provide for, 
it would not have taken long to settle the question of 
expenditure. Five cents at an eating-shop where the 
caterer supplied himself from the hodge-podge of beggars’ 
baskets would have given him a breakfast fit for a dog 
or pig, while the remaining five cents would have gone 
for fiery liquor to quench a burning thirst. 

But another mouth had to be fed. All at once this 
poor degraded man had risen to a sense of responsibility, 
and was practicing the virtue of self-denial. A little 
child was leading him. 

He had no toilette to make, no ablutions to practice. 
There was neither pail nor wash-basin in his miserable 
kennel. So, without any delay of preparation, he caught 
up the broken mug and went out, as forlorn a looking 
wretch as was to be seen in all that region. Almost 
every house that he passed was a grog-shop, and his nerves 
were all unstrung and his mouth and throat dry from a 
night’s abstinence. But he was able to go by without a 
pause. In a few minutes he returned with a loaf of 
bread, a pint of milk and a single dried sausage. 

What a good breakfast the two made! Not for a long 
time had the man so enjoyed a meal. The sight of little 
Andy, as he ate with the fine relish of a hungry child, 
made his dry bread and sausage taste sweeter than any- 
thing that had passed his lips for weeks. 

Something more than the food he had taken steadied 
the man’s nerves and allayed his thirst. Love was beat- 
ing back into his heart — love for this homeless wanderer, 
whose coming had supplied the lost links in the chain 


266 


CAST ADRIFT. 


whicli bound him to tbe past and called up memories 
that bad slept almost tbe sleep of death for years. Good 
resolutions began forming in bis mind. 

“It may be,” be said to bimself as new and better 
impressions than be bad known for a long time began to 
crowd upon bim, “ that God bas led tbis baby bere.” 

Tbe thought sent a strange thrill to bis soul. He trem- 
bled with excess of feeling. He bad once been a relig- 
ious man; and with tbe old instinct of dependence on 
God, be clasped his hands together with a sudden, desper- 
ate energy, and looking up, cried, in a half-despairing, 
half-trustful voice, 

“Lord, help me!” 

No earnest cry like that ever goes up without an in- 
stant answer in tbe gift of divine strength. Tbe man 
felt it in a stronger purpose and a quickening hope. He 
was conscious of a new power in bimself. 

“ God being my helper,” be said in the silence of his 
heart, “ I will be a man again.” 

There was a long distance between bim and a true 
manhood. The way back was over very rough and dif- 
ficult places, and through dangers and temptations almost 
impossible to resist. Who would have faith in him? 
Who would help him in his great extremity ? How was 
he to live ? Not any longer by begging or petty theft. 
He must do honest work. There was no hope in any- 
thing else. If God were to be his helper, he must be 
honest, and work. To this conviction he had come. 

But what was to be done with Andy while he was away 
trying to earn something? The child might get hurt in 


OAST ADRIFT. 


267 


the street or wander off in his absence and never find his 
way back. The care he felt for the little one was pleas- 
ure compared to the thought of losing him. 

As for Andy, the comfort of a good breakfast and the 
feeling that he had a home, mean as it was, and some- 
body to care for him, made his heart light and set his 
lips to music. 

When before had the dreary walls of that poor hovel 
echoed to the happy voice of a light-hearted child ? But 
there was another echo to the voice, and from walls as 
long a stranger to such sounds as these — ^the walls in the 
chambers of that poor man’s memory. A wellnigh lost 
and ruined soul was listening to the far-off voices of chil- 
dren. Sunny-haired little ones were thronging about 
him; he was looking into their tender eyes; their soft 
arms were clinging to his neck; he was holding them 
tightly clasped to his bosom. 

“Baby,” he said. It was the word that came most 
naturally to his lips. 

Andy, who was sitting where a few sunbeams came in 
through a rent in the wall, with the warm light on his 
head, turned and looked into the bleared but friendly 
eyes gazing at him so earnestly. 

“ I’m going out, baby. Will you stay here till I come 
back?” 

“ Yes,” answered the child, “ I’ll stay.” 

“I won’t be gone very long, and I’ll bring you an 
apple and something good for dinner.” 

Andy’s face lit up and his eyes danced. 

Don’t go out until I come back. Somebody might 


268 


CAST ADRIFT. 


carry you off, and then I couldn’t give you the nice red 
apple.” 

“ I’ll stay right here,” said Andy, in a positive tone. 

“ And won’t go into the street till I come back ?” 

' “ No, I won’t.” Andy knit his brows and closed his 
lips firmly. 

“ All right, little one,” answered the man, in a cheery 
sort of voice that was so strange to his own ears that it 
seemed like the voice of somebody else. 

Still, he could not feel satisfied. He was living in the 
midst of thieves to whom the most insignificant thing 
upon which they could lay their hands was booty. Chil- 
dren who had learned to be hard and cruel thronged the 
court, and he feared, if he left Andy alone in the hovel, 
that it would not only be robbed of its meagre furniture, 
but the child subjected to ill-treatment.. He had always 
fastened the door on going out, but hesitated now about 
locking Andy in. 

All things considered, it was safest, he felt, to lock the 
door. There was nothing in the room that could bring 
harm to the child — no fire or matches, no stairs to climb 
or windows out of which he could fall. 

“ I guess I’d better lock the door, hadn’t I, so that no- 
body can carry off my little boy ?” he asked of Andy. 

Andy made no objections. He was ready for anything 
his kind friend might propose. 

“ And you mustn’t cry or make a noise. The police 
might break in if you did.” 

“ All right,” said Andy, with the self-assertion of a boy 
of ten. 


CAST ADRIFT 


269 


The man stroked the child’s head and ran his fingers 
through his hair in a fond way ; then, as one who tore 
himself from an object of attraction, went hastily out 
and locked the door. 

And now was to begin a new life. Friendless, debased 
repulsive in appearance, everything about him denoting 
the abandoned drunkard, this man started forth to get 
honest bread. Where should he go ? What could he do? 
Who would give employment to an object like him ? The 
odds were fearfully against him — ^no, not that, either. In 
outward respects, fearful enough were the odds, but on the 
other side agencies invisible to mortal sight were organ- 
izing for his safety. In to his purpose to lead a new life 
and help a poor homeless child God’s strength was flow- 
ing. Angels were drawing near to a miserable wreck of 
humanity with hands outstretched to save. All heaven 
was coming to the rescue. 

He was shufiling along in the direction of a market- 
house, hoping to earn a little by carrying home baskets, 
when he came face to face with an old friend of his bet- 
ter days, a man with whom he had once held close busi- 
ness relations. 

“ Mr. Hall !” exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrow- 
ful surprise, stopping and looking at him with an ex- 
pression of deepest pity on his countenance. “ This is 
dreadful !” 

“ You may well say that, Mr. Graham. It is dread- 
ful enough. Ho one knows that better than I do,” was 
answered, with a bitterness that his old friend felt to be 
genuine. 


270 


CAST ABBIFT. 


“Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?’’ 
asked the friend. 

“ I shall not lead it a day longer if God will help me,” 
was replied, with a genuineness of purpose that was felt 
by Mr. Graham. 

“ Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall,” he ex- 
claimed. Two hands closed in a tight grip. 

“ Where are you going now ?” inquired the friend. 

“I’m in search of something to do— something that 
will give me honest bread. Look at my hand.” 

He held it up. . 

“It shakes, you see. I have not tasted liquor this 
morning. I could have bought it, but I did not.” 

“Why?” 

“ I said, ‘ God being my helper, I will be a man again,’ 
and I am trying.” 

“Andrew Hall,” said his old friend, solemnly, as he 
laid his hand oh his shoulder, “ if you are really in earn- 
est — if you do mean, in the help of God, to try — all will 
be well. But in his help alone is there any hope. Have 
you seen Mr. Paulding?” 

“ No.” 

“ Why not?” 

“He has no faith in me. I have deceived him too 
often.” 

“What ground of faith is there now?” asked Mr. 
Graham. 

“ This,” was the firm but hastily spoken answer. “ Last 
night, as I sat in the gloom of my dreary hovel, feeling 
so wretched that I wished I could die, a little child came 


CAST ADRIFT. 


271 


in — a poor, motlierless, homeless wanderer, almost a baby — 
and crept down to my heart, and be is lying there still, 
Mr. Graham, soft and warm and precious, a sweet burden 
to bear. I bought him a supper and a breakfast of bread 
and milk with the money I had saved for drink, and 
now, both for his sake and mine, I am out seeking for 
work. I have locked him in, so that no one can harm or 
carry him away while I earn enough to buy him liis din- 
ner, and maybe something better to wear, poor little 
homeless thing 

There was a genuine earnestness and pathos about the 
man that could not be mistaken. 

“ I think,” said Mr. Graham, his voice not quite steady, 
“ that God brought us together this morning. I know 
Mr. Paulding. Let us go first to the mission, and have 
some talk with him. You must have a bath and better 
and cleaner clothes before you are in a condition to get 
employment.” 

The bath and a suit of partly-worn but good clean 
clothes were supplied at the mission house. 

“ Now come with me, and I will find you something to 
do,” said the old friend. 

But Andrew Hall stood hesitating. 

“ The little child — I told him I’d come back soon. He’s 
locked up all alone, poor baby !” 

He spoke with a quiver in his voice. 

“ Oh, true, true !” answered Mr. Graham ; the baby 
must be looked after;” and he explained to the mission- 
ary. 

I will go round with you and get the child,” said Mr. 


272 


CAST ADRIFT 


Paulding. “ My wife will take care of him while you are 
away with Mr. Graham.” 

They found little Andy sitting patiently on the floor. 
He did not know the friend who had given him a home 
and food and loving words, and looked at him half scared 
and doubting. But his voice made the child spring to his 
feet with a bound, and flushed his thin face with the joy 
of a glad recognition. 

Mrs. Paulding received him with a true motherly kind- 
ness, and soon a bath and clean clothing wrought as great 
a change in the child as they had done in the man. 

“ I want your help in saving him,” said Mr. Graham, 
aside, to the missionary. “ He was once among our most 
respectable citizens, a good church-member, a good 
husband and father, a man of ability and large influence. 
Society lost much when it lost him. He is well worth 
saving, and we must do it if possible. God sent him this 
little child to touch his heart and flood it with old mem- 
ories, and then he led me to come down here that I might 
meet and help him just when his good purposes made help 
needful and salvation possible. It is all of his loving care 
and wise providence — of his tender mercy, which is over 
the poorest and weakest and most degraded of his chil- 
dren. Will you give him your special care ?” 

“ It is the work I am here to do,” answered the mis- 
sionary. “The Master came to seek and to save that 
which was lost, and I am his humble follower.” 

“ The child will have to be provided for,” said Mr. 
Graham. “It cannot, of course, be left with him. It 
needs a woman’s care.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


273 


“ It will not do to separate them,” returned the mission- 
ary. « As you remarked just now, God sent him this lit- 
tle child to touch his heart and lead him back from the 
wilderness in which he has strayed. His safety depends 
on the touch of that hand. So long as he feels its clasp 
and its pull, he will walk in the new way wherein God is 
setting his feet. No, no ; the child must be left with him 
— at least for the present. We will take care of it while 
he is at work during the day, and at night it can sleep in 
his arms, a protecting angel.” 

“ What kind of a place does he live in ?” asked Mr. 
Graham. 

“ A dog might dwell there in comfort, but not a man,” 
replied the missionary. 

Mr. Graham gave him money: “Provide a decent 
room. If more is required, let me know.” 

He then went away, taking Mr. Hall with him. 

“ You will find the little one here when you come back,” 
said Mr. Paulding as he saw the anxious, questioning 
look that was cast toward Andy. 

Clothed and in his right mind, but in no condition for 
work, was Andrew Hall. Mr. Graham soon noticed, as 
he walked by his side, that he was in a very nervous con- 
dition. 

“ What had you for breakfast this morning ?” he asked, 
the right thought coming into his mind. 

“ Not much. Some bread and a dried sausage.” 

“ Oh dear! that will never do I You must have some- 
thing more nutritious — a good beefsteak and a cup of 
coffee to steady your nerves. Come.” 

s 


274 


CAST ADRIFT. 


And in a few minutes they were in an eating-house. 
When they came out, Hall was a different man. Mr. 
Graham then took him to his store and set him to work 
to arrange and file a number of letters and papers, which 
occupied him for several hours. He saw that he had a 
good dinner and at five o’clock gave him a couple of dol- 
lars for his day’s work, and after many kind words of 
advice and assurance told him to come back in the morn- 
ing, and he would find something else for him to do. 

Swiftly as his feet would carry him, Andrew Hall made 
his way to the Briar street mission. He did not at first 
know the clean, handsome child that lifted his large 
brown eyes to his face as he came in, nor did the child 
know him until he spoke. Then a cry of pleasure broke 
from the baby’s lips, and he ran to the arms reached out 
to clasp him. 

“We’ll go home now,” he said, as if anxious to regain 
possession of the child. 

“ Not back to Grubb’s court,” was answered by Mr. 
Paulding. “ If you are going to be a new man, you must 
have a new and better home, and I’ve found one for you 
just a little way from here. It’s a nice clean room, and 
I’ll take you there. The rent is six dollars a month, but 
you can easily pay that when you get fairly to work.” 

The room was in the second story of a small house, 
better kept than most of its neighbors, and contained a 
comfortable bed, with other needed furniture, scanty, but 
clean and good. It was to Mr. Hall like the chamber of 
a prince compared with what he had known for a long 
time ; and as he looked around him and comprehended 


t 




ANDY’S FIRST 1‘RAYKK, 









CAST ADRIFT. 


275 


something of the blessed change that was coming over 
his life, tears filled his eyes. 

“ Bring Andy around in the morning,” said the mis- 
sionary as he turned to go. “Mrs. Paulding will take 
good care of him.” 

That night, after undressing the child and putting on 
him the clean night-gown which good Mrs. Paulding had 
not forgotten, he said, 

“ And now Andy will say his prayers.” 

Andy looked at him with wide-open, questioning eyes. 
Mr. Hall saw that he was not understood. 

“You know, ‘Now I lay me’ ?” he said. 

“ No, don’t know it,” replied Andy. 

“‘Our Father,’ then?” 

The child knit his brow. It was plain that he did not 
understand what his good friend meant. 

“You’ve said your prayers?” 

Andy shook his head in a bewildered way. 

“Never said your prayers!” exclaimed Mr. Hall, in a ' 
voice so full of surprise and pain that Andy grew half 
frightened. 

“Poor baby!” was said, pityingly, a moment after. 
Then the question, “Wouldn’t you like to say your 
prayers?” brought the quick answer, “Yes.” 

“Kneel down, then, right here.” Andy knelt, look- 
ing up almost wonderingly into the face that bent over 
him. 

“We have a good Father in heaven,” said Mr. Hall, 
with tender reverence in his tone, pointing upward as he 
spoke. “ He loves us and takes care of us. He brought 


276 


CAST ADRIFT. 


you to me, and told me to love you and take care of you 
for him, and I’m going to do it. Now, I want you to say 
a little prayer to this good and kind Father before you 
go to bed. Will you ?” 

“ Yes, I will,” came the ready answer. 

« Say it over after me. < Now I lay me down to sleep.’ ” 

Andy repeated the words, his little hands clasped 
together, and followed through the verse which thou- 
sands of little children in thousands of Christian homes 
were saying at the very same hour. 

There was a subdued expression on the child’s face as 
he rose from his knees ; and when Mr. Hall lifted him 
from the floor to lay him in bed, he drew his arms about 
his neck and hugged him tightly. 

How beautiful the child looked as he lay with shut 
eyes, the long brown lashes fringing his flushed cheeks, 
that seemed already to have gained a healthy roundness ! 
The soft breath came through his parted lips, about which 
still lingered the smile of peace that rested there after 
his first prayer was said ; his little hands lay upon his 
breast. 

As Mr. Hall sat gazing at this picture there came a 
rap on his door. Then the missionary entered. Neither 
of the men spoke for some moments. Mr. Paulding 
comprehended the scene, and felt its sweet and holy in- 
fluence. 

“Blessed childhood!” he said, breaking the silence. 
“Innocent childhood! The nearer we come to it, the 
nearer we get to heaven.” Then, after a pause, he added, 
“ And heaven is our only hope, Mr. Hall.” 


CAST ADRIFT, 277 

“ I have no hope but in God’s strength,” was answered, 
in a tone of solemn earnestness. 

“ God is our refuge, our rock of defence, our hiding- 
place, our sure protector. If we trust in him, we shall 
dwell in safety,” said the missionary. “I am glad to 
hear you speak of hoping in God. He will give you 
strength if you lean upon him, and there is not power 
enough in all hell to drag you down if you put forth 
this God-given strength. But remember, my friend, that 
you must use it as if it were your own. You must resist. 
God’s strength outside of our will and effort is of no use 
to any of us in temptation. But looking to our Lord 
and Saviour in humble yet earnest prayer for help in the 
hour of trial and need, if we put forth our strength in 
resistance of evil, small though it he, then into our weak 
efforts will come an influx of divine power that shall 
surely give us the victory. Have you a Bible ?” 

Mr. Hall shook his head. 

‘‘ I have brought you one and the missionary drew a 
small Bible from his pocket. “No man is safe without a 
Bible.” 

“ Oh, I am glad ! I was just wishing for a Bible,” 
said Hall as he reached out his hand to receive the pre- 
cious book. 

“If you read it every night and morning — if you 
treasure its holy precepts in your memory, and call them 
up in times of trial, or when evil enticements are in your 
way — God can come near to your soul to succor and to 
save, for the words of the holy book are his words, and 
he is present in them. If we take them into our thoughts, 
24 


278 


CAST ADRIFT. 


reverently seeking to obey them, we make a dwelling- 
place for the Lord, so that he can abide with us ; and in 
his presence there is safety.” 

“ And nowhere else,” responded Hall, speaking from a 
deep sense of personal helplessness. 

“ Nowhere else,” echoed the missionary. “ And herein 
lies the hope or the despair of men. It is pitiful, it is heart- 
aching, to see the vain but wild and earnest efforts made 
by the slaves of intemperance to get free from their cruel 
bondage. Thousands rend their fetters every year after 
some desperate struggle, and escape. But, alas! how 
many are captured and taken back into slavery 1 Appe- 
tite springs upon them in some unguarded moment, and 
in their weakness there is none to succor. They do not 
go to the Strong for strength, but trust in themselves, and 
are cast down. Few are ever redeemed from the slavery 
of intemperance but those who pray to God and humbly 
seek his aid. And so long as they depend on him, they 
are safe. He will be as a wall of fire about them.” 

As the missionary talked, the face of Mr. Hall under- 
went a remarkable change. It grew solemn and very 
thoughtful. His hands drew together and the fingers 
clasped. At the last words of Mr. Paulding a deep groan 
came from his heart; and lifting his gaze upward, he 
cried out. 

Lord, save me, or I perish I” 

‘‘ Let us pray,” said the missionary, and the two men 
knelt together, one with bowed head and crouching body, 
the other with face uplifted, tenderly talking to Him who 
had come down to the lowliest and the vilest that he 


CAST ADRIFT. 


279 


might make them pure as the angels, about the poor 
prodigal now coming back to his Father’s house. 

After the prayer, Mr. Paulding read a chapter from 
the Bible aloud, and then, after words of hope and com- 
fort, went away. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


‘‘T TAKE reproof to myself,” said Mr. Dinneford. 

J- “As one of your board of managers, I ought to 
have regarded my position as more than a nominal one. 
I understand better now what you said about the ten or 
twenty of our rich and influential men who, if they could 
be induced to look away for a brief period from their 
great enterprises, ^d concentrate thought and eflbrt upon 
the social evils, abuse of justice, violations of law, pov- 
erty and suffering that exist here and in other parts of 
our city, would inaugurate reforms and set beneficent 
agencies at work that would soon produce marvelous 
changes for good.” 

“ Ah, yes,” sighed Mr. Paulding. “If we had for just 
a little while the help of our strong men — the men of 
brains and will and money, the men who are used to 
commanding success, whose business it is to organize 
forces and set impediments at defiance, the men whose 
word is a kind of law to the people — ^how quickly, and 
as if by magic, would all this change I 

“ But we cannot now hope to get this great diversion 
in our favor. Until we do we must stand in the breach, 
small in numbers and weak though we are — must go on 
doing our best and helping when we may. Help is help 
and good is good, be it ever so small. If I am able to 
280 * 


CAST ADRIFT. ' 


281 


rescue but a single life where many are drowning, I make 
just so much head against death and destruction. Shall 
I stand off and refuse to put forth my hand because I 
♦ cannot save a score ? 

“ Take heart, Mr. Dinneford. Our work is not in vain. 
Its fruits may be seen all around. Bad as you find every- 
thing, it is not so bad as it was. When our day-school 
was opened, the stench from the filthy children who were 
gathered in was so great that the teachers were nauseated. 
They were dirty in person as well as dirty in their cloth- 
ing. This would not do. There was no hope of moral 
purity while such physical impurity existed. So the 
mission set up baths, and made every child go in and 
thoroughly wash his body. Then they got children’s 
clothing — ^new and old — from all possible sources, and 
put clean garments on their little scholars. From the 
moment they were washed and cleanly clad, a new and 
better spirit came upon them. They were more orderly 
and obedient, and more teachable. There was, or seemed 
to be, a tenderer quality in their voices as they sang their 
hymns of praise.” 

Just then there came a sudden outcry and a confusion 
of voices from the street. Mr. Dinneford arose quickly 
and went to the window. A man, apparently drunk and 
in a rage, was holding a boy tightly gripped by the collar 
with one hand and cufiSng him about the head and face 
with the other. 

« It’s that miserable Blind Jake !” said Mr. Paulding. 

In great excitement, Mr. Dinneford threw up the win- 
dow and called for the police. At this the man stopped 
24 * 


282 


CAST ADRIFT. 


beating the boy, but swore at him terribly, his sightless 
eyes rolling and his face distorted in a frightful way. 
A policeman who was not far off came now upon the 
scene. 

“ What’s all this about ?” he asked, sternly. 

Jake’s drunk again, that’s the row,” answered a voice. 

“ Lock him up, lock him up !” cried two or three from 
the crowd. 

An expression of savage defiance came into the face of 
the blind man, and he moved his arms and clenched his 
fist like one who was bent on desperate resistance. He 
was large and muscular, and, now that he was excited by 
drink and bad passions, had a look that was dangerous. 

“ Go home and behave yourself,” said the policeman, 
not caring to have a single-handed tussle with the human 
savage, whose strength and desperate' character he well 
knew. 

Blind Jake, as he was called, stood for a few moments 
half defiant, growling and distorting his face until it 
looked more like a wild animal’s than a man’s, then 
jerked out the words, 

“ Where’s that Pete ?” with a sound like the crack of a 
whip. 

The boy he had been beating in his drunken fury, 
and who did not seem to be much hurt, came forward 
from the crowd, and taking him by the hand, led him 
away. 

“ Who is this blind man ? I have seen him before,” 
said Mr. Dinneford. 

“You may see him any day standing at the street cor- 


CAST ADETFT, 


283 


ners, begging, a miserable-looking object, exciting tbe 
pity of tbe humane, and gathering in money to spend in 
drunken debauchery at night. He has been known to 
bring in some days as high as ten and sometimes fifteen 
dollars, all of which is wasted in riot before the next 
morning. He lives just over the way, and night after 
night I can hear his howls and curses and laughter 
mingled with those of the vile women with whom he 
herds.” 

‘'Surely this cannot be?” said Mr. Dinneford. 

“ Surely it is,” Avas replied. “ I know of what I speak. 
“There is hardly a viler wretch in all our city than 
this man, who draws hundreds — I might say, without 
exaggeration, thousands — of dollars from weak and ten- 
der-hearted people every year-to be spent as I have said ; 
and he is not the only one. Out of this district go hun- 
dreds of thieves and beggars every day, spreading them- 
selves over the city and gathering in their harvests from 
our people. I see them at the street corners, coming out 
of yards and alley-gates, skulking near unguarded prem- 
ises and studying shop-windows. They are all impos- 
tors or thieves. Not one of them is deserving of charity. 
He who gives to them wastes his money and encourages 
thieving and vagrancy. One half of the successful bur- 
glaries committed on dwelling-houses are in consequence 
of information gained by beggars. Servant-girls are lured 
away by old women who come in thfe guise of alms- 
seekers, and by well-feigned poverty and a seeming spirit 
of humble thankfulness — often of pious trust in God — 
win upon their sympathy and confidence. Many a poor 


284 


CAST ADRIFT 


weak girl lias thus been led to visit one of these poor, 
women in the hope of doing her some good, and many a 
one has thus been drawn into evil ways. If the people 
only understood this matter as I understand it, they 
would shut hearts and hands against all beggars. I add 
beggary as a vice to drinking and policy-buying as the 
next most active agency in the work of making paupers 
and criminals.’^ 

“ But there are deserving poor,” said Mr. Dinneford. 
“We cannot shut our hearts against all who seek for 
help.” 

“ The deserving poor,” replied Mr. Paulding, “ are 
never common beggars — never those who solicit in the 
street or importune from house to house. They try 
always to help themselves, and ask for aid only when in 
great extremity. They rarely force themselves on your 
attention; they suffer and die often in dumb despair. We 
find them in these dreary and desolate cellars and garrets, 
sick and starving and silent, often dying, and minister to 
them as best we can. If the money given daily to idle 
and vicious beggars could be gathered into a fund and 
dispensed with a wise Christian charity, it would do a 
vast amount of good ; now it does only evil.” 

“ You are doubtless right in this,” returned Mr. Dinne- 
ford. “ Some one has said that to help the evil is to hurt 
the good, and I guess his saying is near the truth.” 

“ If you help the vicious and the idle,” was answered, 
“ you simply encourage vice and idleness, and these never 
exist without doing a hurt to society. Withhold aid, and 
they will be forced to work, and so not only do something 


CAST ADRIFT. 285 

for the common good, but be kept out of the evil ways 
into which idleness always leads. 

So you see, sir, how wrong it is to give alms to the 
vast crew of beggars that infest our cities, and especially 
to the children who are sent out daily to beg or steal as 
opportunity offers. 

“ But there is another view of the case,” continued 
Mr. Paulding, “that few consider, and which would, I 
am sure, arouse the people to imnjediate action if they 
understood it as I do. We compare the nation to a 
great man. We call it a ‘ body politic.^ We speak of 
its head, its brain, its hands, its feet, its arteries and vital 
forces. We know that no part of the nation can be hurt 
without all the other parts feeling in some degree the shock 
and sharing the loss or suffering. What is true of the 
great man of the nation is true of our smaller communi- 
ties, our States and cities and towns. Each is an aggre- 
gate man, and the health and well-being of this man 
depend on the individual men and the groups and societies 
of men by which it is constituted. There cannot be an 
unhealthy organ in the human system without a commu- 
nication of disease to the whole body. A diseased liver 
or heart or lung, a useless hand or foot, an ulcer or local 
obstruction, cannot exist without injury and impediment 
to the whole. In the case of a malignant ulcer, how 
soon the blood gets poisoned ! 

“ Now, here is a malignant ulcer in the body politic of 
our city. Is it possible, do you think, for it to exist, and 
in the virulent condition we find it, and not poison the 
blood of our whole community? Moral and spiritual 


286 


CAST ADRIFT, ' 


laws are as unvarying in their action, out of natural 
sight though they be, as physical laws. Evil and good 
are as positive entities as fire, and destroy or consume as 
surely. As certainly as an ulcer poisons with its malig- 
nant ichor this blood that visits every part of the body, 
so surely is this ulcer poisoning every part of our com- 
munity. Any one who reflects for a moment will see 
that it cannot be otherwise. From this moral ulcer 
there flows out daily and nightly an ichor as destructive 
as that from a cancer. Here theft and robbery and mur- 
der have birth, nurture and growth until full formed 
and organized, and then go forth to plunder and destroy. 
The life and property of no citizen is safe so long as this 
community exists. It has its schools of instruction for 
thieves and housebreakers, where even little children are 
educated to the business of stealing and robbery. Out 
from it go daily hundreds of men and women, boys and 
girls, on their business of beggary, theft and the entice- 
ment of the weak and unwary into crime. In it congre- 
gate human vultures and harpies who absorb most of the 
plunder that is gained outside, and render more brutal 
and desperate the wretches they rob in comparative 
safety. 

<‘Let me show you how this is done. A man or a 
woman- thirsting for liquor will steal anything to get 
money for whisky. The article stolen may be a coat, a 
pair of boots or a dress — something worth from five to 
twenty dollars. It is taken to one of these harpies, and sold 
for fifty cents or a dollar — anything to get enough for a 
drunken spree. I am speaking only, of what I know. 


CAST ADBIFT, 


287 


Then, again, a man or a woman gets stupidly drunk in 
one of the whisky-shops. Before he or. she is thrown out 
upon the street, the thrifty liquor-seller ‘goes through’ 
the pockets of the insensible wretch, and confiscates all 
he finds. Again, a vile woman has robbed one of her 
visitors, and with the money in her pocket goes to a 
dram-shop. The sum may be ten dollars or it may be 
two hundred. A glass or so unlooses her tongue; she 
boasts of her exploit, and perhaps shows her booty. Not 
once in a dozen times will she take this booty away. If 
there are only a few women in the shop, the liquor-seller 
will most likely pounce on her at once and get the money 
by force. There is no redress. To inform the police is to 
give information against herself. He may give her back 
a little to keep her quiet or he may not, just as he feels 
about it. If he does not resort to direct force, he will 
manage in some other way to get the money. I could 
take you to the dram-shop of a man scarcely a stone’s 
throw from this place who came out of the State’s prison 
less than four years ago and set up his vile trap where it 
now stands. He is known to be worth fifty thousand dollars 
to-day. How did he make this large sum ? By the profits 
of his bar ? No one believes this. It has been by rob- 
bing. his drunken, and criminal customers whenever he 
could get them in his power.” 

“ I am oppressed by all this,” said Mr. Dinneford. “ I 
never dreamed of such a state of things.” 

“ Nor does one in a hundred of our good citizens, who 
live in quiet unconcern with this pest-house of crime and 
disease in their midst. And speaking of disease, let me 


288 


CAST ADRIFT. 


give you another fact that should be widely known. 
Every obnoxious epidemic with which our city has been 
visited in the last twenty years has originated here — ship 
fever, relapsing fever and small-pox — and so, getting a 
lodgment in the body politic, have poured their malig- 
nant poisons into the blood and diseased the whole. 
Death has found his way into the homes of hundreds of 
our best citizens through the door opened for him here.” 

« Can this be so ?” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford. 

“It is just as I have said,” was replied. “And how 
could it be otherwise ? Whether men take heed or not, 
the evil they permit to lie at their doors will surely do 
them harm. Ignorance of a statute, a moral or a physi- 
cal law gives no immunity from consequence if the law 
be transgressed — a fact that thousands learn every year 
to their sorrow. There are those who would call this 
spread of disease, originating here, all over our city, a 
judgment from God, to punish the people for that neglect 
and indifference which has left such a hell as this in 
their midst. I do not so read it. God has no pleasure 
in punishments and retributions. The evil comes not 
from him. It enters through the door we have left open, 
just as a thief enters our dwellings, invited through our 
neglect to make the fastenings sure. It comes under 
the operations* of a law as unvarying as any law in 
physics. And so long as we have this epidemic-breeding 
district in the very heart of our city, we must expect to 
reap our periodical harvests of disease and death. What 
it is to be next year, or the next, none can tell.” 

“Does not your perpetual contact with all this give 


CAST ADRIFT, 


28 


your mind an unhealthy tone — a disposition to magni.^ 
its disastrous consequences ?” said Mr. Dinneford. 

The missionary dropped his eyes. The flush and ani- 
mation went out of his face. 

“I leave you to judge for yourself,” he answered, after 
a brief silence, and in a voice that betrayed a feeling of 
disappointment. “You have the fact before you in the 
board of health, prison, almshouse, police, house of 
refuge, mission and other reports that are made every 
year to the people. ^If they hear not these, neither will 
they believe, though one rose from the dead.” 

“All is too dreadfully palpable for unbelief,” returned 
Mr. Dinneford. “ I only expressed a passing thought.” 

“ My mind may take an unhealthy tone — does often, 
without, doubt,” said Mr. Paulding. “ I wonder, some- 
times, that I can keep my head clear and my purposes 
steady amid all this moral and physical disorder and suf- 
fering. But exaggeration of either this evil or its conse- 
quences is impossible. The half can never be told.” 

Mr. Dinneford rose to go. As he did so, two little 
Italian children, a boy and a girl, not over eight years of 
age, tired, hungry, pinched and starved-looking little 
creatures, the boy with a harp slung over his shoulder, 
and the girl carrying a violin j went past on the other 
side. 

“ Where in the world do all of these little wretches 
come from ?” asked Mr. Dinneford. “ They are swarm- 
ing our streets of late. Yesterday I saw a child who 
could not be over two years of age tinkling her triangle, 
while an older boy and girl were playing on a^ harp and 
T 


26 


90 


CAST ADRIFT. 


lolin. She seemed so cold and tired that it made me 
sad to look at her. There is something wrong about 
this.” 

“Something very wrong,” answered the missionary. 
“ Doubtless you think these children are brought here by 
their parents or near relatives. No such thing. Most 
of them are slaves. I speak advisedly. The slave-trade 
is not yet dead. Its abolition on the coast of Africa did 
not abolish the cupidity that gave it birth. And the 
< coolie ’ trade, one of its new forms, is not confined to the 
East.” 

“ I am at a loss for your meaning,” said Mr. Dinne- 
ford. 

“ I am not surprised. The new slave-trade, which has 
been carried on with a secresy that is only now beginning 
to attract attention, has its source of supply in Southern 
Italy, from which large numbers of children are drawn 
every year and brought to this country. 

“ The headquarters of this trade — cruel enough in some 
of its features to bear comparison with the African slave- 
trade itself — are in New- York. From this city agents 
are sent out to Southern Italy every year, where little in- 
telligence and great poverty exist. These agents tell 
grand stories of the brilliant prospects oflered to the 
young in America. Let me now read to you from the 
published testimony of one who has made a thorough in- 
vestigation of this nefarious business, so that you may get 
a clear comprehension of its extent and iniquity. 

“ He says : ‘ One of these agents will approach the father 
of a family, and after commenting upon the beauty of his 


CAST ADRIFT. 


291 


children, will tell him that his boys should be sent at 
once to America, where they must in time become rich.” 
“ There are no poor in America.” “ The children should 
go when young, so that they may grow up with the peo- 
ple and the better acquire the language.” “ None are too 
young or too old to go to America.” The father, of 
course, has not the means to go himself or to send his 
children to this delightful country. The agent then 
offers to take the children to America, and to pay forty 
or fifty dollars to the father upon his signing an inden- 
ture abandoning all claims upon them. He often, also, 
promises to pay a hundred or more at the end of a year, 
but, of course, never does it. 

“ ‘ After the agent has collected a sufficient number of 
children, they are all supplied with musical instruments, 
and the trip on foot through Switzerland and France 
begins. They are generally shipped to Genoa, and often 
to Marseilles, and accomplish the remainder of the jour- 
ney to Havre or Calais by easy stages from village to 
village. Thus they become a paying investment from the 
beginning. This journey occupies the greater portion of 
the summer months; and after a long trip in the steer- 
age of a sailing-vessel, the unfortunate children land at 
Castle Garden. As the parents never hear from them 
again, they do not know whether they are doing well 
or not. * I 

“ ^ They are too young and ignorant to know how to 
get themselves delivered from oppression; they do not 
speak our language, and find little or no sympathy among 
the people whom they annoy. They are thus left to the 


292 


CAST ADRIFT 


mercy of their masters, who treat them brutally, and 
apparently without fear of the law or any of its officers. 

“ ‘ They are crowded into small, ill- ventilated, uncarpet- 
ed rooms, eighteen or twenty in each, and pass the night 
on the floor, with only a blanket to protect them from the 
severity of the weather. In the mornings they are fed 
by their temporary guardian with maccaroni, served in 
the filthiest manner in a large open dish in the centre of 
the room, after which they are turned out into the streets 
to beg or steal until late at night. 

“ ‘ More than all this, when the miserable little outcasts 
return to their cheerless quarters, they are required to de- 
liver every cent which they have gathered during the day ; 
and if the same be deemed insufficient, the children are 
carefully searched and soundly beaten. ‘ 

“ ‘ The children are put through a kind of training in 
the arts of producing discords on their instruments, and 
of begging, in the whole of which the cruelty of the mas- 
ters and the stolid submission of the pupils are the pre- 
dominant features. The worst part of all is that the 
children become utterly unfitted for any occupation ex- 
cept vagrancy and theft.’ 

“You have the answer to your question, ‘Where do 
all these little wretches come. from?”’ said the missionary 
as he laid aside the paper from which he had been read- 
ing. “ Poor little slaves !” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


E DITH’S life, as we have seen, became lost, so to speak, 
in charities. Her work lay chiefly with children. 
She was active in mission-schools * and in two or three 
homes for friendless little ones, and did much to extend 
their sphere of usefulness. Her garments were plain and 
sombre, her fair young face almost colorless, and her as- 
pect so nun-like as often to occasion remark. 

Her patience and tender ways with poor little children, 
especially with the youngest, were noticed by all who 
were associated with her. Sometimes she would show 
unusual interest in a child just brought to one of the 
homes, particularly if it were a boy, and only two or 
three years old. She would hover about it and ask it 
questions, and betray an eager concern that caused a mo- 
ment’s surprise to those who noticed her. Often, at such 
times, the pale face would grow warm with the flush of 
blood sent out by her quicker heartbeats, and her eyes 
would have a depth of expression and a brightness that 
made her beauty seem the reflection of some divine be- 
atitude. Xow and then it was observed that her man- 
ner with these little waifs and cast-adrifts that were gath- 
ered in from the street had in it an expression of pain, that 
her eyes looked at them sadly, sometimes tearfully. Often 
she came with light feet and a manner almost cheery, to 
25 * 293 


294 


CAST ADRIFT, 


go away with eyes cast down and lips set and curved and 
steps that were slow and heavy. 

Time had not yet solved the mystery of her baby’s life 
or death; and until it was solved, time had no power 
to abate the yearning at her heart, to dull the edge of 
anxious suspense or to reconcile her to a Providence that 
seemed only cruel. In her daily prayers this thought of 
cruelty in God often came in to hide his face -from her, 
and she rose from her knees more frequently in a passion 
of despairing tears than comforted. How often she 
pleaded with God, weeping bitter tears, that he would 
give her certainty in place of terrible doubts ! Again, 
she would implore his loving care over her poor baby, 
wherever it might be. 

So the days wore on until nearly three years had elapsed 
since Edith’s child was born. 

It was Christmas eve, but there were no busy hands 
at work, mad6 light by loving hearts, in the home of Mr. 
Dinneford. All its chambers were silent. And yet the 
coming anniversary was not to go uncelebrated. Edith’s 
heart was full of interest for the children of the poor, the 
lowly, the neglected and the suffering, whom Christ came 
to" save and to bless. Her anniversary was to be spent 
with them, and she was looking forward to its advent 
with real pleasure. 

‘‘ We have made provision for four hundred children,” 
said her father. « The dinner is to be at twelve o’clock, 
and we must be there by nine or ten. We shall be busy 
eaough getting everything ready. There are forty tur- 
keys to cut up and four hundred plates to fill.” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


295 


«And many willing hands to do it,” remarked Edith, 
with a quiet smile ; “ ours among the rest.” 

“ You’d better keep away from there,” spoke up Mrs. 
Dinneford, with a jar in her voice. “ I don’t see what 
possesses you. You can find poor little wretches any- 
where, if you’re so fond of them, without going to Briar 
street. You’ll bring home the small-pox or something 
worse.” 

Neither Edith nor her father made any reply, and 
there fell a silence on the group that was burdensome to 
all. Mrs. Dinneford felt it most heavily, and after the 
lapse of a few minutes withdrew from the room. 

“ A good dinner to four hundred hungry children, 
some of them half starved,” said Edith as her mother 
shut the door. ‘‘ I shall enjoy the sight as much as they 
will enjoy the feast.” 

A little after ten o’clock on the next morning, Mr. Din- 
neford and Edith took their way to the mission-school in 
Briar street. They found from fifteen to twenty ladies 
and gentlemen already there, and at work helping to 
arrange the tables, which were set in the two long upper 
rooms. There were places for nearly four hundred chil- 
dren, and in front of each was an apple, a cake and a 
biscuit, and between every four a large mince pie.. The 
forty turkeys were at the baker’s, to be ready at a little 
before twelve o’clock, the dinner-hour, and in time for 
the carvers, who were to fill the four hundred plates for 
the expected guests. 

At eleven o’clock Edith and her father went down to 
the chapel on the first floor, where the children had assem- 


296 


CAST ADRIFT. 


bled' for the morning exercises, that were to continue for 
an hour. 

Edith had a place near the reading-desk where she 
could see the countenances of all those children who 
were sitting side by side in row after row and filling 
every seat in the room, a restless, eager, expectant crowd, 
half disciplined and only held quiet by the order and 
authority they had learned to respect. Such faces as 
she looked into ! In scarcely a single one could she find 
anything of true childhood, and they were so marred by 
suffering and evil! In vain she turned from one to 
another, seal-ching for a sweet, happy look or a face un- 
marked by pain or vice or passion. It made her heart 
ache. Some were so hard and brutal in their expression, 
and so mature in their aspect, that they seemed like the 
faces of debased men on which a score of years, passed 
in sensuality and crime, had cut their deep deform- 
ing lines, while others were pale and wasted, with half- 
scared yet defiant eyes, and thin, sharp, enduring lips, 
making one tearful to look at them. Some were restless 
as caged animals, not still for a single instant, hands 
moving nervously and bodies swaying to and fro, while 
others sat stolid and almost as immovable as stone, star- 
ing at the little group of men and women in front who 
were to lead them' in the exercises of the morning. 

At length one face of the many before her fixed the eyes 
of Edith. It was the face of a little boy scarcely more 
than three years old. He was only a few benches from 
her, and had been hidden from view by a larger boy just 
in front of him. When Edith first noticed this child, he 


CAST ADRIFT. 


297 


was looking at her intently from a pair of large, clear 
brown eyes that had in them a wistful, hungry expression. 
His hair, thick and wavy, had been smoothly brushed by 
some careful hand, and fell back from a large forehead, 
the whiteness and smoothness of which was noticeable in 
contrast with those around him. His clothes were clean 
and good. 

As Edith turned again and again to the face of this 
child, the youngest perhaps in the room, her heart began 
to move toward him. Always she found him with his 
great earnest eyes upon her. There seemed at last to be 
a mutual fascination. His eyes seemed never to move 
from her face ; and when she tried to look away and get 
interested in other faces, almost unconsciously to herself 
her eyes would wander back, and she would find herself 
gazing at the child. 

At eleven o’clock Mr. Paulding announced that the 
exercises for the morning would begin, when silence fell 
on the restless company of undisciplined children. A 
hymn was read, and then, as the leader struck the tune, 
out leaped the voices of these four hundred children, each 
singing with a strange wild abandon, many of them sway- 
ing their heads and bodies in time to the measure. As 
the first lines of the hymn, 

“ Jesus, gentle Shepherd, lead us. 

Much we need thy tender care,” 

swelled up from the lips of those poor neglected chil- 
dren, the eyes of Edith grew blind with tears. 

After a prayer was ofiered up, familiar addresses, full 


298 


CAST ADRIFT. 


of kindness and encouragement, were made to tke chil- 
dren, interspersed with singing and other appropriate ex- 
ercises. These were continued for an hour. At their 
close the children were taken up stairs to the two long 
school-rooms, in which their dinner was to be served. 
Here were Christmas trees loaded with presents, wreaths 
of evergreen on the walls and ceilings, and illuminated 
texts hung here and there, and everything was provided 
to make the day’s influence as beautiful and pleasant as 
possible to the poor little ones gathered in from cheerless 
and miserable homes. 

Meantime, the carvers had been very busy at work on 
the forty turkeys — large, tender fellows, full of dressing 
and cooked as nicely as if they had been intended for a 
dinner of aldermen — cutting them up and filling the 
plates. There was no stinting of the supply. Each 
plate was loaded with turkey, dressing, potatoes that had 
been baked with the fowls, and a heaping spoonful of 
cranberry sauce, and as fast as filled conveyed to the 
tables by the lady attendants, who had come, many of 
them, from elegant homes, to assist the good missionary’s 
wife and the devoted teachers of the mission-school in 
this labor of love. And so, when the four hundred 
hungry children came streaming into the rooms, they 
found tables spread with such bounty as the eyes of many 
of them had never looked upon, and kind gentlemen and 
beautiful ladies already there to place them at these tables 
and serve them while eating. 

It was curious and touching, and ludicrous sometimes, 
to see the many ways in which the children accepted this 


CAST ADRIFT. 


299 


bountiful supply of food. A few pounced upon it like 
hungry dogs, devouring whole platefuls in a few minutes, 
but most of them kept a decent restraint upon themselves 
in the presence of the ladies and gentlemen, for whom 
they could not but feel an instinctive respect. Very few 
of them could use a fork except in the most awkward 
manner. Some tried to cut their meat, but failing in the 
task, would seize it with their hands and eagerly convey 
it to their hungry mouths. Here and there would be 
seen a mite of a boy sitting in a kind of maze before a 
heaped-up dinner-plate, his hands, strangers, no doubt, to 
knife or fork, lying in his lap, and his face wearing a kind 
of helpless look. But he did not have to wait long. 
Eyes that w^ere on the alert soon saw him ; ready hands 
cut his food, and a cheery voice encouraged him to eat. 
If these children had been the sons and daughters of 
princes, they could not have been ministered to with a 
more gracious devotion to their wants and comfort than 
was shown by their volunteer attendants. 

Edith, entering into the spirit of the scene, gave her- 
self to the work in hand with an interest that made her 
heart glow with pleasure. She had lost sight of the little 
boy in whom she had felt so sudden and strong an in- 
terest, and had been searching about for him ever since 
the children came up from the chapel. At last she saw 
him, shut in and hidden between two larger boys, who 
were eating with a hungry eagerness and forgetfulness of 
everything around them almost painful to see. He was 
sitting in front of his heaped-up plate, looking at the 
tempting food, with his knife and fork lying untouched 


300 


CAST ADRIFT. 


on the table. There was a dreamy, half-sad, half-be- 
wildered look about him. 

“Poor little fellow!*’ exclaimed Edith as soon as she 
saw him, and in a moment she was behind his chair. 

“ Shall I cut it up for you ?” she asked as she lifted his 
knife and fork from the table. 

The child turned almost with a start, and looked up at 
her with a quick flash of feeling on his face. She saw 
that he remembered her. 

“ Let me flx it all nicely,” she said as she stooped over 
him- and commenced cutting up his piece of turkey. The 
child did not look at his plate while she cut the food, but 
with his head turned kept his large eyes on her counte- 
nance. 

“ Now it’s all right,” said Edith, encouragingly, as she 
laid the knife and fork on his plate, taking a deep breath 
at the same time, for her heart beat so rapidly that her 
lungs was oppressed with the inflowing of blood. She 
felt, at the same time, an almost irresistible desire to 
catch him up into her arms and draw him lovingly to 
her bosom. The child made no attempt to eat, and still 
kept looking at her. 

“ Now, my little man,” she said, taking his fork and 
lifting a piece of the turkey to his mouth. It touched 
his palate, and appetite asserted its power over him ; his 
eyes went down to his plate with a hungry eagerness. 
Then Edith put the fork into his hand, but he did not 
know how to use it, and made but awkward attempts to 
take up the food. 

Mrs. Paulding, the missionary’s wife, came by at the 


CAST ADRIFT 301 

moment, and seeing the child, put her hand on him, and 
said, kindly, 

“ Oh, it’s little Andy,” and passed on. 

“ So your name’s Andy ?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” It was the first time Edith had heard 
his voice. It fell sweet and tender on her ears, and 
stirred her heart strangely. 

“ Where do you live ?” 

He gave the name of a street she had never heard of 
before. 

“ But you’re not eating your dinner. Come, take your 
fork just so. There ! that’s the way and Edith took his 
hand, in which he was still holding the fork, and lifted 
two or three mouthfuls, which he ate with increasing rel- 
ish. After that he needed no help, and seemed to forget 
in the relish of a good dinner the presence of Edith, who 
soon found others who needed her service. 

The plentiful meal was at last over, and the children, 
made happy for one day at least, were slowly dispersing 
to their dreary homes, drifting away from the better 
influences good men and women had been trying to 
gather about them even for a little while. The children 
were beginning to leave the tables when Edith, who had 
been busy among them, remembered the little boy who 
had so interested her, and made her way to the place 
where he had been sitting. But he was not there. She 
looked into the crowd of boys and girls who were pressing 
toward the door, but could not see the child. A shadow 
of disappointment came over her feelings, and a strange 
heaviness weighed over her heart. 

26 


302 


CAST ADRIFT 


“ Oil, I’m so sorry,” she said to herself. I wanted to 
see him again.” 

She pressed through the crowd of children, and made 
her way down among them to the landing below and out 
upon the street, looking this way and that, but could not 
see the child. Then she returned to the upper rooms, 
but her search was in vain. Remembering that Mrs. 
Paulding had called him by name, she sought for the 
missionary’s wife and made inquiry about him. 

Do you mean the little fellow I called Andy ?” said 
Mrs. Paulding. 

Yes, that’s the one,” returned Edith. 

“ A beautiful boy, isn’t he ?” 

“ Indeed he is. I never saw such eyes in a child. Who 
is he, Mrs. Paulding, and what is he doing here? He 
cannot be the child of depraved or vicious parents.” 

‘‘I do not think he is. But from whence he came no 
one knows. He drifted in from some unknown land of 
sorrow to find shelter on our inhospitable coast. I am 
sure that God, in his wise providence, sent him here, for 
his coming was the means of saving a poor debased man 
who is well worth the saving.” 

Then she told in a few words the story of Andy’s 
appearance at Mr. Hall’s wretched hovel and the wonder- 
ful changes that followed — how a degraded drunkard, 
seemingly beyond the reach of hope and help, had been 
led back to sobriety and a life of honest industry by the 
hand of a little child cast somehow adrift in the world, 
yet guarded and guided by Him who does not lose sight 
in his good providence of even a single sparrow. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


303 


“Who is this man, and where does he live?” asked 
Mr. Dinneford, who had been listening to Mrs. Paulding’s 
brief recital. 

“ His name is Andrew Hall,” was replied. 

“Andrew Hall!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford, with a 
start and a look of surprise. 

“Yes, sir. That is his name, and he is now living 
alone with the child of whom we have been' speaking, not 
very far from here, but in a much better neighborhood. 
He brought Andy around this morning to let him enjoy 
the day, and has come for him, no doubt, and taken him 
home.” 

“ Give me the street and number, if you please, Mr. 
Paulding,” said Mr. Dinneford, with much repressed ex- 
citement. “We will go there at once,” he added, turning 
to his daughter. 

Edith’s face had become pale, and her father felt her 
hand tremble as she laid it on his arm. 

At this moment a man came up hurriedly to Mrs. Paul- 
ding, and said, with manifest concern, 

“Have you seen Andy, ma’am? Pve been looking 
all over, but can’t find him.” 

“ He was here a little while ago,” answered the mission- 
ary’s wife. “ We were just speaking of him. I thought 
you’d taken him home.” 

“ Mr. Hall !” said Edith’s father, in a tone of glad rec- 
ognition, extending his hand at the same time. 

“ Mr. Dinneford I” The two men stood looking at each 
other, with shut lips and faces marked by intense feeling, 
each grasping tightly the other’s hand. 


304 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“ It is going to be well with you once more, my dear 
old friend !” said Mr. Dinneford. 

“ God being my helper, yes !” was the firm reply. “ He 
has taken my feet out of the miry clay and set them on 
firm ground, and I have promised him that they shall not 
go down into the pit again. But Andy ! I must look for 
him.” 

And he was turning away. 

“ I saw Andy a little while ago,” now spoke up a woman 
who had come in from the street and heard the last re- 
mark. 

« Where?” asked Mr. Hall. 

“A girl had him, and she was going up Briar street on 
the run, fairly dragging Andy after her. She looked like 
Pinky Swett, and I do believe it was her. She’s been in 
prison, you know ; but I guess her time’s up.” 

Mr. Hall stopped to hear no more, but ran down stairs 
and up the street, going in the direction said to have been 
taken by the woman. Edith sat down, white and faint. 

“Pinky Swett!” exclaimed Mrs. Paulding. “Why, 
that’s the girl who had the child you were looking after a 
long time ago, Mr. Dinneford.” 

“ Yes ; I remember the name, and no doubt this is the 
very child she had in her possession at that time. Are 
you sure she has been in prison for the last two years ?” 
and Mr. Dinneford turned to the woman who had men- 
tioned her name. 

“Oh yes, sir; I remember all about it,” answered the 
woman. “ She stole a man’s pocket-book, and got two 
years for it.” 


CAST ADRIFT 


305 


“You know her?” 

“ Oh yes, indeed ! And she’s a bad one, I can tell you. 
She had somebody’s baby round in Grubb’s court, and it 
was ’most starved to death. I heard it said it belonged to 
some of the big people up town, and that she was getting 
hush-money for it, but I don’t know as it was true. Peo- 
ple will talk.” 

“Do you know what became of that baby?” asked 
Edith, with ill-repressed excitement. Her face was still 
very pale, and her forehead contracted as by pain. 

“ No, ma’am. The police came round asking questions, 
and the baby wasn’t seen in Grubb’s court after that.” 

“You think it was Pinky Swett whom you saw just 
now ?” 

“ I’m dead sure of it, sir,” turning to Mr. Dinneford, 
who had asked the question. 

“ And you are certain it was the little boy named Andy 
that she had with her ?” 

I’m as sure as death, sir.” 

“ Did he look frightened ?” 

“ Oh dear, yes, sir — scared as could be. He pulled 
back all his might, but she whisked him along as if he’d 
been only a chicken. I saw them go round the corner of 
Clayton street tike the wind.” 

Mr. Paulding now joined them, and became advised of 
what had happened. He looked very grave. 

“ We shall find the little boy,” he said. “ He cannot 
be concealed by this wretched woman as the baby was; 
he is too old for that. The police will ferret him out. 
But I am greatly concerned for Mr. Hall. That child is 
26 « tJ 


306 


CAST ADRIFT 


tlie bond wbicb bolds bim at safe anchorage. Break this 
bond, and be may drift to sea again. I must go after 
bim.’’ 

And tbe missionary hurried away. 

For over an hour Edith and her father remained at tbe 
mission waiting for some news of little Andy. At tbe 
end of this time Mr. Paulding came back with word that 
nothing could be learned beyond the fact that a woman 
with a child answering to the description of Andy had 
been seen getting into an up-town car on Clayton street 
about one o’clock. She came, it was said by two or three 
who professed to have seen her, from the direction of 
Briar street. Tlie chief of police had been seen, and he 
had already telegraphed to all the stations. Mr. Hall 
was at the central station awaiting the result. 

After getting a promise from Mr. Paulding to send a 
messenger the moment news of Andy was received, Mr. 
Dinneford and Edith returned home. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


S Edith glanced up, on arriving before their resi- 



dence, she saw for a moment her mother’s face at 
the window. It vanished like the face of a ghost, but 
not quick enough to prevent Edith from seeing that it 
was almost colorless and had a scared look. They did 
not find Mrs. Dinneford in the parlor when they came in, 
nor did she make her appearance until an hour after- 
ward, when dinner was announced. Then it was plain 
to both her husband and daughter that something had 
occurred since morning to trouble her profoundly. The 
paleness noticed by Edith at the window and the scared 
look remained. Whenever she turned her eyes suddenly 
upon her mother, she found her looking at her with a 
strange, searching intentness. It was plain that Mrs. 
Dinneford saw in Edith’s face as great a change and mys- 
tery as Edith saw in hers, and the riddle of her husband’s 
countenance, so altered since morning, was harder even 
than Edith’s to solve. 

• A drearier Christmas dinner, and one in which less 
food was taken by those who ate it, could hardly have 
been found in the city. The Briar-street feast was one of 
joy and gladness in comparison. The courses came and 
went with unwonted quickness, plates bearing off the almost 
untasted viands which they had received. Scarcely a 


307 


308 


CAST ADBIFT. 


word was spoken during the meal. Mrs. Dinneford asked 
no question about the dinner in Briar street, and no re- 
mark was made about it by either Edith or her father. 
In half the usual time this meal was ended. Mrs. Dinne- 
ford left the table first, and retired to her own room. As 
she did so, in taking her handkerchief from her pocket, 
she drew out a letter,, which fell unnoticed by her upon 
the floor. Mr. Dinneford was about calling her atten- 
tion to it when Edith, who saw his purpose and was near 
enough to touch his hand, gave a quick signal to forbear. 
The instant her mother was out of the room she sprang 
f: Dm her seat, and had just secured the letter when the 
dining-room door was pushed open, and Mrs. Dinneford 
came in, white and frightened. She saw the letter in 
Edith’s hand, and with a cry like some animal in pain 
leaped upon her and tried to wrest it from her grasp. 
But Edith held it in her closed hand with a desperate 
grip, defying all her mother’s efforts to get possession of 
it. In her wild fear and anger Mrs. Dinneford ex- 
claimed, 

“ I’ll kill you if you don’t give me that letter !” and 
aictually, in her blind rage, reached toward the table as 
if to get a knife. Mr. Dinneford, who had been for a 
moment stupefied, now started forward, and throwing his 
arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith could 
escape with the letter, not releasing her until the sound 
of his* daughter’s retiring feet were no longer heard. By 
this time she had ceased to struggle ; and when he released 
her, she stood still in a passive, dull sort of way, her arms 
falling heavily to her sides. He looked into her face, 


CAST ADRIFT. 


309 


and saw that the eyes were staring wildly and the muscles 
in a convulsive quiver. Then starting and reaching out 
helplessly, she fell forward. Catching her in his arms, 
Mr. Dinneford drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead 
before he could raise her from the floor. 

When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked 
the door. Then all her excitement died away. She sat 
down, and opening the letter with hands that gave no 
sign of -inward agitation or suspense, read it through. It 
was dated at Havana, and was as follows : 

“ Mrs. Helen Dinneford : Madam — My physician 
tells me that I cannot live a week — may die at any mo- 
ment ; and I am afraid to die with one unconfessed and 
unatoned sin upon my conscience — a sin into which I was 
led by you, the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into 
particulars. You know to what I refer — the ruin of an 
innocent, confiding young man, your daughter’s hus- 
band. I do not wonder that he lost his reason ! But I 
have information that his insanity has taken on the 
mildest form, and that his friends are only keeping him 
at the hospital until they can get a pardon from the gov- 
ernor. It is in your power and mine to establish his in- 
nocence at once. I leave you a single month in which to 
do this, and at the same time screen yourself, if that be 
possible. If, at the end of a month, it is not done, then 
a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement of 
the whole iniquitous aflair, will be placed in the hands of 
your husband, and another in the hands of your daugh- 
ter. I have so provided for this that no failure can take 


310 


CAST ADRIFT. 


place. So be warned and make the innocence of George 
Granger as clear as noonday. 

“Lloyd Feeeling.’’ 

Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of 
emotion was visible. She looked about the room, down 
at herself, and again at the letter. 

“ Am I really awake ?” she said, beginning to tremble. 
Then the glad but terrible truth grappled with her con- 
victions, and through the wild struggle and antago- 
nism of feeling that shook her soul there shone into - 
her face a joy so great that the pale features grew almost 
radiant. 

“Innocent I innocent!” fell from her lips, over which 
crept a smile of ineffable love. But it faded out quickly, 
and left in its place a shadow of ineffable pain. 

“ Innocent ! innocent I” she repeated, now clasping her 
hands and lifting her eyes heavenward. “Dear Lord 
and Saviour I My heart is full of thankfulness I Inno- 
cent! Oh, let it be made as clear as noonday! And 
my baby. Lord — oh, my baby, my baby ! Give him back 
to me !” 

She fell forward upon her bed, kneeling, her face hid- 
den among the pillows, trembling and sobbing. 

“ Edith ! Edith I” came the agitated voice of her father 
from without. She rose quickly, and opening the door, 
saw his pale, convulsed countenance. 

“ Quick ! quick ! Your mother !” and Mr. Dinneford 
turned and ran down stairs, she following. On reaching 
the dining-room, Edith found her mother lying on a sofa, 


CAST ADRIFT. 311 

with the servants about her in great excitement. Better 
than any one did she comprehend what she saw. 

“ Dead,” fell almost coldly from her lips. 

“I have sent for Dr. Radcliffe. It may only be a 
fainting fit,” answered Mr. Dinneford. 

Edith stood a little way ofi* from her mother, as if held 
from personal contact by an invisible barrier, and looked 
upon her ashen face without any sign of emotion. 

“ Dead, and better so,” she said, in an undertone heard 
only by her father. 

“My child! don’t, don’t!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford 
in a deprecating whisper. 

“ Dead, and tetter so,” she repeated, firmly. 

While the servants chafed the hands and feet of Mrs. 
Dinneford, and did what they could in their confused way 
to bring her back to life, Edith stood a little way ofi*, 
apparently undisturbed by what she saw, and not once 
touching her mother’s body or ofiering a suggestion to 
the bewildered attendants. 

When Dr. Radclifie came and looked at Mrs. Dinneford, 
all saw by his countenance that he believed her dead. 
A careful examination proved the truth of his first im- 
pression. She was done with life in this world. 

As to the cause of her death, the doctor, gathering 
what he could from her husband, pronounced it heart 
disease. The story told outside was this — so the doctor 
gave it, and so it was understood : Mrs. Dinneford was 
sitting at the table when her head was seen to sink for- 
ward, and before any one could get to her she was dead. 
It was not so stated to him by either Mr. Dinneford or 


312 


CAST ADRIFT. 


Edith, but he was a prudent man, and careful of the good 
fame of his patients. Family affairs he held as sacred 
trusts. Well he knew that there had been a tragedy in 
this home — a tragedy for which he was in part, he feared, 
responsible ; and he did not care to look into it too closely. 
But of all that was involved in this tragedy he really 
knew little. Social gossip had its guesses at the truth, 
often not very remote, and he was familiar with these, 
believing little or much as it suited him. 

It is not surprising that Edith’s father, on seeing the 
letter of Lloyd Freeling, echoed his daughter’s words, 
“ Better so !” 

Not a tear was shed on the grave of Mrs. Dinneford. 
Husband and daughter saw her body carried forth and 
buried out of sight with a feeling of rejection and a sense of 
relief. Death had no power to soften their hearts toward 
her. Charity had no mantle broad enough to cover her 
wickedness ; filial love was dead, and the good heart of 
her husband turned away at remembrance with a shud- 
der of horror. 

Yes, it was “better so !” They had no grief, but thank- 
fulness, that she was dead. 

On the morning after the funeral there came a letter 
from Havana addressed to Mr. Dinneford. It was from 
the man Freeling. In it he related circumstantially all 
the reader knows about the conspiracy to destroy Gran- 
ger. The letter enclosed an affidavit made by Freeling, 
and duly attested by the American consul, in which he 
stated explicitly that all the forgeries were made by him- 
self, and that George Granger was entirely ignorant of 


CAST ADRIFT. 313 

the character of the paper he had endorsed with the name 
of the firm. 

Since the revelation made to Edith by Freeling’s letter 
to her mother, all the repressed love of years, never dead 
nor diminished, but only chained, held down, covered 
over, shook itself free from bonds and the wrecks and 
debris of crushed hopes. It filled her heart with an agony 
of fullness. Her first passionate impulse was to go to him 
and throw herself into his arms. But a chilling thought 
came with the impulse, and sent all the outgoing heart- 
beats back. She was no longer the wife of George Gran- 
ger. In a weak hour she had yielded to the importunities 
of her father, and consented to an application for divorce. 
No, she was no longer the wife of George Granger. She 
had no right to go to him. If it were true that reason 
had been in part or wholly restored, would he not reject 
her with scorn ? 'IJie very thought made her heart stand 
still. It would be more than she could bear. 

27 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


O other result than the one that followed could have 
been hoped for. The- strain upon Edith was too 
great. After the funeral of her mother mind and body 
gave way, and she passed several weeks in a half-uncon- 
scious state. 

Two women, leading actors in this tragedy of life, met 
for the first time in over two years — Mrs. Hoyt, alias 
Bray, and Pinky Swett. It had not gone very well with 
either of them during that period. Pinky, as the reader 
knows, had spent the time in prison, and Mrs. Bray, who 
had also gone a step too far in her evil ways, was now 
hiding from the police under a difierent name from any 
heretofore assumed. They met, by what seemed an acci- 
dent, on the street. 

“ Pinky!” 

» Fan I” 

Dropped from their lips in mutual surprise and pleasure. 
A little while they held each other’s hands, and looked 
into each other’s faces with keenly-searching, sinister eyes, 
one thought coming uppermost in the minds of both — 
the thought of that long-time-lost capital in trade, the 
cast-adrift baby. 

From the street they went to Mrs. Bray’s hiding-place 

314 


CAST ADRIFT. 315 

— a small ill-furnislied room in one of the suburbs of the 
city — and there took counsel together. 

“ What became of that baby ?” was one of Mrs. Bray’s 
first questions. 

“ It’s all right,” answered Pinky. 

“ Do you know where it is ?” 

“Yes.” • 

“ And can you put your hand on it ?” 

“At any moment.” 

“Not worth the trouble of looking after now,” said 
Mrs. Bray, assuming an indifferent manner. 

“ Why ?” Pinky turned on her quickly. 

“ Oh, because the old lady is dead.” 

“ What old lady ?” 

“ The grandmother.” 

• “ When did she die ?” 

“ Three or four weeks ago.” 

“ What was her name ?” asked Pinky. 

Mrs. Bray closed her lips tightly and shook her head. 

“ Can’t betray that secret,” she replied. 

“ Oh, just as you like and Pinky gave her head an 
impatient toss. “ High sense of honor I Respect for the 
memory of a departed friend ! But it won’t go down 
with me. Fan. We know each other too well. As for 
the baby — a pretty big one now, by the way, and as hand- 
some a boy as you’ll find in all this city — ^he’s worth 
something to somebody, and I’m on that somebody’s 
track. There’s a mother as well as a grandmother in the 
case. Fan.” 

Mrs. Bray’s eyes fiashed, and her face grew red with an 


316 CAST ADRIFT. 

excitement she could not hold back. Pinky watched her 
keenly. 

There’s somebody in this town to-day who would give 
thousands to get him,” she added, still keeping her eyes 
on her companion. “ And as I was saying, I’m on that 
somebody’s track. You thought no one but you and Sal 
Long knew anything, and that when she died you had the 
secret all to yourself. But Sal didn’t keep mum about it.” 

‘‘Did she tell you anything?” demanded Mrs. Bray, 
thrown off her guard by Pinky’s last assertion. 

“Enough for me to put this and that together and 
make it nearly all out,” answered Pinky, with great cool- 
ness. “ I was close after the game when I got caught 
myself. But I’m on the track once more, and don’t 
mean to be thrown off. A link or two in the chain of 
evidence touching the parentage of this child, and I am 
all right. You have these missing links, and can furnish 
them if you will. If not, I am bound to find them. 
You know me. Fan. If I once set my heart on doing a 
thing, heaven and earth can’t stop me.” 

“ You’re devil enough for anything, I know, and can lie 
as fast as you can talk,” returned Mrs. Bray, in consider- 
able irritation. “ If I could believe a word you said ! 
But I. can’t.” 

“No necessity for it,” retorted Pinky, with a careless 
toss of her head. “If you don’t wish to hunt in com- 
pany, all right. I’ll take the game myself.” 

“ You forget,” said Mrs. Bray, “ I can spoil your game.” 

“Indeed! how?” 

“ By blowing the whole thing to Mr. — ” 


CAST ADRIFT. 


817 


“Mr. who?” asked Pinky, leaning forward eagerly as 
her companion paused without uttering the name that 
was on her lips. 

“ Wouldn’t you like to know?” Mrs. Bray gave a low 
tantalizing laugh. 

“ I’m not sure thdt I would, from you. I’m hound to 
know somehow, and it will be cheapest to find out for 
myself,” replied Pinky, hiding her real desire, which was 
to get the clue she sought from Mrs. Bray, and which she 
alone could give. “As for blowing on me, I wouldn’t 
like anything better. I wish you’d call on Mr. Some- 
body at once, and tell him I’ve got the heir of his house 
and fortune, or on Mrs. Somebody, and tell her I’ve got 
her lost baby. Do it. Fan ; that’s a deary.” 

“Suppose I were to do so?’^ asked Mrs. Bray, repress- 
ing the anger that was in her heart, and speaking with 
some degree of calmness. 

“What then?” 

“The police would be down on you in less than an 
hour.” 

“And what then?” 

“ Your game would be up.” 

Pinky laughed derisively : 

“ The police are down on me now, and have been com- 
ing down on me for nearly a month past. But I’m too 
much for them. I know how to cover my tracks.” 

“Down on you ! For what?” 

“ They’re after the boy.” 

“ What do they know about him ? Who set them 

after him ?” 

27 * 


318 


CAST ADRIFT. 


“I grabbed him up last Cliristmas down in Briar 
street after being on bis track for a week, and them that 
had him are after him sharp.” 

“Who had him?” 

“ I’m a little puzzled at the rumpus it has kicked up,” 
said Pinky, in reply. “ It’s stirred things amazingly.” 

“How?” 

“ Oh, as I said, the police are after me sharp. They’ve 
had me before the mayor twice, and got two or three to 
swear they saw me pick up the child in Briar street and 
run off with him. But I denied it all.” 

“ And I can swear that you confessed it all to me,” 
said Mrs. Bray, with ill-concealed triumph. 

“ It won’t do. Fan,” laughed Pinky. “ They’ll not be 
able to find him any more then than now. But I wish 
you would. I’d like to know this Mr. Somebody of 
whom you spoke. I’ll sell out to him. He’ll bid high, 
I’m thinking.” 

Baffled by her sharper accomplice, and afraid to trust 
her with the secret of the child’s parentage lest she should 
rob her of the last gain possible to receive out of this 
great iniquity, Mrs. Bray became wrought up to a state 
of ungovernable passion, and in a blind rage pushed 
Pinky from her room. The assault was sudden and un- 
expected — so sudden that Pinky, who was the stronger, 
had no time to recover herself and take the ofiensive 
before she was on the outside and the door shut and 
locked against her. A few impotent threats and curses 
were interchanged between the two infuriated women, 
and then Pinky went away. 


CAST ADRIFT 


319 


On the day following, as Mr. Dinneford was preparing 
to go out, he was informed that a lady had called and 
was waiting down stairs to see him. She did not send 
her card nor give her name. On going into the room 
where the visitor had been shown, he saw a little woman 
with a dark, sallow complexion. She arose and came 
forward a step or two in evident embarrassment. 

“ Mr. Dinneford ?” she said. 

That is my name, madam,” was replied. 

“ You* do not know me ?” 

Mr. Dinneford looked at her closely, and then an- 
swered, 

“ I have not that pleasure, madam.” 

The woman stood for a moment or two, hesitating. 

“ Be seated, madam,” said Mr. Dinneford. 

She sat down, seeming very ill at ease. He took a 
chair in front of her. 

“ You wish to see me ?” 

« Yes, sir, and on a matter that deeply concerns you. 
I was your daughter’s nurse when her baby was born.” 

She paused at this. Mr. Dinneford had caught his 
breath. She saw the almost wild interest that flushed his 
face. 

After waiting a moment for some response, she added, 
in a low, steady voice, 

“That baby is still alive, and I am the only person who 
can clearly identify him.” 

Mr. Dinneford did not reply immediately. He saw by 
the woman’s face that she was not to be trusted, and that 
in coming to him she had only sinister ends in view. Her 


320 


CAST ADEIFT 


story might be true or false. He thought hurriedly, and 
tried to regain exterior calmness. As soon as he felt 
that he could speak without tetraying too much eager- 
ness, he said, with an appearance of having recognized 
her, 

“ You are Mrs. V 

He paused, but she did not supply the name. 

“ Mrs. ? Mrs. ? what is it ?” 

“No matter, Mr. Dinneford,” answered Mrs. Bray, 
with the coolness and self-possession she had now regained. 
“ What I have just told you is true. If you wish to fol- 
low up the matter — ^wish to get possession of your daugh- 
ter’s child — you have the opportunity ; if not, our inter- 
view ends, of course and she made a feint, as if going 
to rise. 

“Is it the child a woman named Pinky Swett stole 
away from Briar street on Christmas day ?” asked Mr. 
Hinneford, speaking from a thought that flashed into his 
mind, and so without premeditation. He fixed his eyes 
intently on Mrs. Bray’s . face, and saw by its quick 
changes and blank surprise that he had put the right 
question. Before she could recover herself and reply, he 
added, 

“ And you are, doubtless, this same Pinky Swett.” 

The half smile, half sneer, that curved the woman’s 
lips, told Mr. Hinneford that he was mistaken. 

“ No, sir,” was returned, with regained coolness. “ I 
am not ‘ this same Pinky Swett.’ You are out there.” 

“ But you know her ?” 

“ I don’t know anything just now, sir,” answered the 


CAST ADRIFT. 


321 


woman, with a cliill in her tones. She closed her lips 
tightly, and shrunk hack in her chair. 

What, then, are you here for ?” asked Mr. Dinneford, 
showing considerable sternness of manner. 

“ I thought you understood,” returned the woman. “ I 
was explicit in my statement.” 

“ Oh, I begin to see. There is a price on your informa- 
tion,” said Mr. Dinneford. 

Yes, sir. You might have known that from the first. 
I Avill be frank with you.” 

“ But why have you kept this secret for three years? 
Why did you not come before?” asked Mr. Dinneford. 

Because I was paid to keep the secret. Do you un- 
derstand ?” 

Too well did Mr. Dinneford understand, and it was 
with difficulty he could suppress a groan as his head 
drooped forward and his eyes fell to the floor. 

“ It does not pay to keep it any longer,” added the 
woman. 

Mr. Dinneford made no response. 

“ Gain lies on the other side. The secret is yours, if 
you will have it.” 

« At what price ?” asked Mr. Dinneford, without lifting 
his eyes. 

‘‘ One thousand dollars, cash in hand.” 

“ On production of the child and proof of its identity?” 

Mrs. Bray took time to answer. I do not mean to 
have any slip in this matter,” she said. “ It was a bad 
business at the start, as I told Mrs. Dinneford, and has 
given me more trouble than I’ve been paid for, ten times 
V 


322 


CAST ADBIFT. 


over. I shall not be sorry to wash my hands clean of it ; 
but whenever I do so, there must be compensation and 
security. I haven’t the child, and you may hunt me to 
cover with all the police hounds in the city, and yet not 
find him.” 

“If I agree to pay your demand,” replied Mr. Dinne- 
ford, “ it can only be on production and identification of 
the child.” 

“After which your humble servant will be quickly 
handed over to the police,” a low, derisive laugh gurg- 
ling in the woman’s throat. 

“ The guilty are ever in dread, and the false always in 
fear of betrayal,” said Mr. Dinneford. “ I can make no 
terms with you for any antecedent reward. The child 
must be in my possession and his parentage clearly 
proved before I give you a dollar. As to w^hat may fol- 
low to yourself, your safety will lie in your own silence. 
You hold, and will still hold, a family secret that we shall' 
not care to have betrayed. If you should ever betray it, 
or seek, because of its possession, to annoy or prey upon 
us, I shall consider all honorable contract we may have 
at an end, and act accordingly.” 

“ Will you put in writing an obligation to pay me one 
thousand dollars in case I bring the child and prove its 
identity?” 

“ No ; but I will give you my word of honor that this 
sum shall be placed in your hands whenever you produce 
the child.” 

Mrs. Bray remained silent for a considerable time, then, 
as if satisfied, arose, saying. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


323 


“ You will hear from me by to-morrow or the day after, 
at farthest. Good-morning.” 

As she was moving toward the door Mr. Dinneford 
said, 

“ Let me have your name and residence, madam.” 

The woman quickened her steps, partly turning her 
head as she did so, and said, with a sinister curl of the 
lip, 

“ No, I thank you, sir.” 

In the next moment she was gone. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


"VTOTHING of all this was communicated to Edith. 

After a few weeks of prostration strength came 
slowly back to mind and body, and with returning strength 
her interest in her old work revived. Her feet went down 
again into lowly ways, and her hands took hold of suf- 
fering. 

Immediately on receipt of Freeling’s letter and affi- 
davit, Mr. Dinneford had taken steps to procure a pardon 
for George Granger. It came within a few days after 
the application was made, and the young man was taken 
from the asylum where he had been for three years. 

Mr. Dinneford went to him with Freeling’s affidavit 
and the pardon, and placing them in his hands, watched 
him closely to see the effect they would produce. He 
found him greatly changed in appearance, looking older 
by many years. His manner was quiet, as that of one 
who had learned submission after long suffering. But 
his eyes were clear and steady, and without sign of 
mental aberration. He read Freeling’s affidavit first, 
folded it in an absent kind of way, as if he were dream- 
ing, reopened and read it through again. Then Mr. 
Dinneford saw a strong shiver pass over him ; he became 
pale and slightly convulsed. His face sunk in his hands, 
324 


CAST ADRIFT. 325 

and lie sat for a while struggling with emotions that he 
found it almost impossible to hold back. 

When he looked up, the wild struggle was over. 

“ It is too late,” he said. 

“ No, George, it is never too late,” replied Mr. Dinne- 
ford. “You have suffered a cruel wrong, but in the 
future there are for you, I doubt not, many compensa- 
tions.” 

He shook his head in a dreary way, murmuring, 

“ I have lost too much.” 

“ Nothing that may not be restored. And in all you 
have not lost a good conscience.” 

“ No, thank God !” answered the young man, with a 
sudden flush in his face. “ But for that anchor to my 
soul, I should have long ago drifted out to sea a helpless 
wreck. No, thank God! I have not lost a good con- 
science.” 

“You have not yet read the other paper,” said Mr. 
Dinneford. “ It is your pardon.” 

“Pardon!” An indignant flash came into Granger’s 
eyes. “ Oh, sir, that hurts too deeply. Pardon ! I am 
not a criminal.” 

“ Falsely so regarded in the eyes of the law, but now 
proved to be innocent, and so expressed by the governor. 
It is not a pardon in any sense of remission, but a declara- 
tion of innocence and sorrow for theAndeserved wrongs 
you have suffered.” 

“It is well,” he answered, gloomily — “the best that 
can be done ; and I should be thankful.” 

“You cannot be more deeply thankful than I am, 
28 


326 


CAST ADBIFT. 


George.” Mr. Dinneford spoke with much feeling. “ Let 
us bury this dreadful past out of our sight, and trust in 
God for a better future. You are free again, and your 
innocence shall, so far as I have power to do it, be made 
as clear as noonday. You are at liberty to depart from 
here at once. Will you go with me now ?” 

Granger lifted a half-surprised look to Mr. Dinneford^s 
face. 

“ Thank you,” he replied, after a few moments’ thought. 
“ I shall never forget your kindness, but I prefer remain- 
ing here for a few days, until I can confer with my friends 
and make some decision as to the future.” 

Granger’s manner grew reserved, almost embarrassed. 
Mr. Dinneford was not wrong in his impression of the 
cause. How could he help thinking of Edith, who, turn- 
ing against him with the rest, had accepted the theory of 
guilt and pronounced her sentence upon him, hardest of 
all to bear ? So it appeared to him, for he had nothing 
but the hard fact before him that she had applied for 
and obtained a divorce. 

Yes, it was the thought of Edith that drew Granger 
back and covered him with reserve. What more could 
Mr. Dinneford say? He had not considered all the 
bearings of this unhappy case; but now that he remem- 
bered the divorce, he began to see how full of embarrass- 
ment it was, and how delicate the relation he bore to this 
unhappy victim of his wife’s dreadful crime. 

What could he say for Edith? Nothing! He knew 
that her heart had never turned itself away from this 
man, though she had, under a pressure she was not strong 


CAST ADRIFT 


327 


enougli to resist, turned her back upon him and cast 
aside his dishonored name, thus testifying to the world 
that she believed him base and criminal. If he should 
speak of her, would not the young man answer with in- 
dignant scorn ? 

“ Give me the address of your friends, and I will call 
upon them immediately,” said Mr. Dinneford, replying, 
after a long silence, to Granger’s last remark. “ I am 
here to repair, to any extent that in me lies, the frightful 
wrongs you have suffered. I shall make your cause my 
own, and never rest until every false tarnish shall be 
wiped from your name. In honor and conscience I am 
bound to this.” 

Looking at the young man intently, he saw a grateful 
response in the warmer color that broke into his face and 
in the moisture that filled his eyes. 

. “ I would be base if I were not thankful, Mr. Dinne- 
ford,” Granger replied. “ But you cannot put yourself 
in my place, cannot know what I have suffered, cannot 
comprehend the sense of wrong and cruel rejection that 
has filled my soul with the very gall of bitterness. To 
be cast out utterly, suddenly and without warning from 
heaven into hell, and for no evil thought or act! Ah, sir! 
you do not understand.” 

“ It was a frightful ordeal, George,” answered Mr. Din- 
neford, laying his hand on Granger vdth the tenderness 
of a father. But, thank God ! it is over You have 
stood the terrible heat, and now, coming out of the fur- 
nace, I shall see to it that not even the smell of fire re- 
main upon your garments.” 


328 


CAST ADRIFT. 


Still tlie young man could not be moved from bis pur- 
pose to remain at the asylum until he had seen and con- 
ferred with his friends, in whose hands Mr. Dinneford 
placed the governor’s pardon and the affidavit of Lloyd 
Freeling setting forth his innocence. 

Mrs. -Bray did not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she had 
promised. She had quarreled with Pinky Swett, as the 
reader will remember, and in a fit of blind anger thrust 
her from the room. But in the next moment she remem- 
bered that she did not know where the girl lived, and if 
she lost sight of her now, might not again come across 
her for weeks or months. So putting on her hat and 
cloak hurriedly, she waited until she heard Pinky going 
down stairs, and then came out noiselessly and fol- 
lowed her into the street. She had to be quick in her 
movements, for Pinky, hot with anger, was dashing off 
at a rapid speed. For three or four blocks Mrs. Bray 
kept her in view ; but there being only a few persons in 
the street, she had to remain at a considerable distance 
behind, so as not to attract her attention. Suddenly she 
lost sight of Pinky. She had looked back on hearing a 
noise in the street ; turning again, she could see nothing 
of the girl. Hurrying forward to the corner which 
Pinky had in all probability turned, Mrs. Bray looked 
eagerly up and down, but to her disappointment Pinky 
was not in sight. 

“ Somewhere here. I thought it was farther off,” said 
Mrs. Bray to herself. “ It’s too bad that I should have 
lost sight of her.” 

She stood irresolute for a little while, then walked 


CAST ADRIFT. 


329 


down one of the blocks and back on the other side. 
Halfway down, a small street or alley divided the block. 

“ It’s in there, no doubt,” said Mrs. Bray, speaking to 
herself again. On the corner was a small shop in which 
notions and trimmings were sold. Going into this, she 
asked for some trifling articles, and while looking over 
them drew the woman who kept the shop into conver- 
sation. 

What kind of people live in this little street ?” she 
inquired, in a half-careless tone. 

The woman smiled as she answered, with a slight toss 
of the head, 

“ Oh, all kinds.” 

“ Good, had and indifierent ?” 

“ Yes, white sheep and black.” 

“So I thought. The black sheep will get in. You 
can’t keep ’em out.” 

“ No, and ’tisn’t much use trying,” answered the shop- 
keeper, with a levity of manner not unmarked by Mrs. 
Bray, who said, 

“ The black sheep have to live as well as the white 
ones.” 

“ Just so. You hit the nail there.” 

“ And I suppose you find their money as good as that 
of the whitest ?” 

“ Oh yes.” 

“ And quite as freely spent?” 

“ As to that,” answered the woman, who was inclined 
to be talkative and gossipy, “ we make more out of the 
black sheep than out of the white ones. They don’t 
28 -* 


330 


CAST ADRIFT, 


higgle so about prices. Not that we have two prices, but 
you see they don’t try to beat us down, and never stop to 
worry about the cost of a thing if they happen to fancy 
it. They look and buy, and there’s the end of it.” 

“ I understand,” remarked Mrs. Bray, with a familiar 
nod. “ It may be wicked to say so ; but if I kept a store 
like this, I’d rather have the sinners for customers than 
the saints.” 

She had taken a seat at the counter ; and now, leaning 
forward upon her arms and looking at the shop-woman in 
a pleasant, half-confidential way, said, 

“You know everybody about heref’ 

“ Pretty much.” 

“ The black sheep as well as the white?” 

“ As customers.” 

“ Of course ; that’s all I mean,” was returned. “ I’d 
be sorry if you knew them in any other way — some of 
them, at least.” Then, after a pause, “ Do you know a 
girl they call Pinky ?” 

“ I may know her, but not by that name. What kind 
of a looking person is she?” 

“ A tall, bold-faced, dashing, dare-devil sort of a girl, 
with a snaky look in her eyes. She wears a pink hat 
with a white feather.” 

“ Yes, I think I have seen some one like that, but she’s 
not been around here long.” 

“ When did you see her last?” 

“ If it’s the same one you mean, I saw her go by here 
not ten minutes ago. She lives somewhere down the 
alley.” 


CAST ADRIFT, 


331 


« Do you know the house ?” 

“ I do not; but it can be found, no doubt. You called 
her Pinky.” 

“Yes. Her name is Pinky Swett.” 

“ 0-b ! o-b !” ejaculated the shop-woman, lifting her 
eyebrows in a surprised way. “Why, that’s the girl the 
police were after. They said she’d run off with some- 
body’s child.” 

“ Did they arrest her ?” asked Mrs. Bray, repressing, 
as far as possible, all excitement. 

“ They took her off once or twice, I believe, but didn’t 
make anything out of her. At any rate, the child was 
not found. It belonged, they said, to a rich up-town 
family that the girl was trying to black-mail. But I 
don’t see how that could be.” 

“ The child isn’t about here ?” 

“ Oh dear, no ! If it was, it would have been found 
long before this, for the police are hunting around 
sharp. If it’s all as they say, she’s got it hid somewhere 
else.” 

While Mrs. Bray talked with the shop-woman. Pinky, 
who had made a hurried call at her room, only a hundred 
yards away, was going as fast as a street-car could take 
her to a distant part of the city. On leaving the car at 
the corner of a narrow, half-deserted street, in which the 
only sign of life was a child or two at play in the snow 
and a couple of goats lying on a cellar-door, she walked 
for half the distance of a block, and then turned into a 
court lined on both sides with small, ill-conditioned 
houses, not half of them tenanted. Snow and ice blocked 


332 


CAST ADRIFT. 


the little road-way, except where a narrow path had been 
cut along close to the houses. 

Without knocking, Pinky entered one of these poor 
tenements. As she pushed open the door, a woman who 
was crouching down before a small stove, on which some- 
thing was cooking, started up with a look of surprise 
that changed to one of anxiety and fear the moment she 
recognized her visitor. 

“ Is Andy all right?” cried Pinky, alarm in her face. 

The woman tried to stammer out something, but did 
not make herself understood. At this. Pinky, into whose 
eyes flashed a flerce light, caught her by the wrists in a 
grip that almost crushed the bones. 

“ Out with it ! where is Andy ?” 

Still the frightened woman could not speak. 

“ If that child isn’t here. I’ll murder you !” said Pinky, 
now white with anger, tightening her grasp. 

At this, with a desperate eflbrt, the woman flung her 
off, and catching up a long wooden bench, raised it over 
her head. 

“ If there’s to be any murder going on,” she said, re- 
covering her powers of speech, « I’ll take the flrst hand ! 
As for the troublesome brat, he’s gone. Got out of the 
window and climbed down the spout. Wonder he wasn’t 
killed. Did fall— I don’t know how far — and must have 
hurt himself, for I heard a noise as if something heavy 
had dropped in the yard, but thought it was next door. 
Half an hour afterward, in going up stairs and opening 
the door of the room where I kept him locked in, I found 
it empty and the window open. That’s the whole story. 


CAST ADBIFT, 


333 


I ran out and looked everywhere, but he was off. And 
now, if the murder is to come, I’m going to be in first.” 

And she still kept the long wooden bench poised above 
her head. 

Pinky saw a dangerous look in the woman’s eyes. 

“Put that thing down,” she cried, “and don’t be a 
fool. Let me see and she darted past the woman 
and ran up stairs. She found the window of Andy’s 
prison open and the print of his little fingers on the snow- 
covered sill outside, where he had held on before dropping 
to the ground, a distance of many feet. There was no 
doubt now in her mind as to the truth of the woman’s 
story. The child had made his escape. 

“ Have you been into all the neighbors’ houses?” asked 
Pinky as she came down hastily. 

“ Into some, but not all,” she replied. 

“ How long is it since he got away ?” 

“ More than two hours.” 

“ And you’ve been sticking down here, instead of ran- 
sacking every hole and corner in the neighborhood. I 
can hardly keep my hands off of you.” 

The woman was on the alert. Pinky saw this, and did 
not attempt to put her threat into execution. After pour- 
ing out her wrath in a flood of angry invectives, she 
went out and began a thorough search of the neighbor- 
hood, going into every house for a distance of three or 
four blocks in all directions. But she could neither find 
the child nor .get the smallest trace of him. He had 
dropped out of sight, so far as she was concerned, as com- 
pletely as if he had fallen into the sea. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

D ay after day Mr. Dinneford waited for the woman 
who was to restore the child of Edith, but she did 
not come. Over a week elapsed, but she neither called 
nor sent him a sign or a word. He dared not speak 
about this to Edith. She was too weak in body and 
mind for any further suspense or strain. 

Andrew Hall had been nearly thrown down again by the 
events of that Christmas day. The hand of a little child 
was holding him fast to a better life; but when that hand 
was torn suddenly away from his grasp, he felt the pull 
of evil habits, the downward drift of old currents. His 
steps grew weak, his knees trembled. But God did not 
mean that he should be left alone. He had reached 
down to him through the hand of a little child, had 
lifted him up and led him into a way of safety ; and now 
that this small hand, the soft touch of which had gone 
to his heart and stirred him with old memories, sad and 
sweet and holy, had dropped away from him, and he 
seemed to be losing his hold of heaven, God sent him, 
in Mr. Dinneford, an angel with a stronger hand. There 
were old associations that held these men together. They 
had been early and attached friends, and this meeting, 
after many years of separation, under such strange cir- 
cumstances, and with a common fear and anxiety at 
* 334 


CAST ADRIFT. 


335 


heart, could not but have the effect of arousing in the 
mind of Mr. Dinneford the deepest concern for the 
unhappy man. He saw the new peril into which he was 
thrown by the loss of Andy, and made it his first busi- 
ness to surround him with all possible good and strength- 
ening influences. So the old memories awakened by the 
coming of Andy did not fade out and lose their power 
over the man. He had taken hold of the good past 
again, and still held to it with the tight grasp of one 
conscious of danger. 

“We shall find the child — no fear of that,” Mr. Din- 
neford would say to him over and over again, trying to 
comfort his own heart as well, as the days went by and no 
little Andy could be found. “ The police have the girl 
under the sharpest surveillance, and she cannot baffle 
them much longer.” 

George Granger left the asylum with his friends, and 
dropped out of sight. He did not show himself in the 
old places nor renew old associations. He was too deeply 
hurt. The disaster had been too great for any attempt 
on his part at repairing the old dwelling-places of his 
life. His was not what we call a strong nature, but he 
was susceptible of very deep impressions. He was fine 
and sensitive, rather than strong. Kejected by his wife 
and family without a single interview with her or even 
an opportunity to assert his innocence, he felt the wrong 
so deeply that he could not get over it. His love for his 
wife had been profound and tender, and when it became 
known to him that she had accepted the appearances of 
guilt as conclusive, and broken with her own hands the 


336 


CAST ADBIFT 


tie that bound them, it was more than he had strength 
to bear, and a long time passed before he rallied from 
this hardest blow of all. 

Edith knew that her father had seen Granger after 
securing his pardon, and she had learned from him only, 
particulars of the interview. Beyond this nothing came 
to her. She stilled her heart, aching with the old love 
that crowded all its chambers, and tried to be patient 
and submissive. It was very hard. But she was help- 
less. Sometimes, in the anguish and wild agitation of 
soul that seized her, she would resolve to put in a letter 
all she thought and felt, and have it conveyed to Gran- 
ger ; but fear and womanly delicacy drove her back from 
this. What hope had she that he would not reject her 
with hatred and scorn ? It was a venture she dared not 
make, for she felt- that such a rejection would kill her. 

But for her work among the destitute and the neglected, 
Edith would have shut herself up at home. Christian 
charity drew her forth daily, and in offices of kindness 
and mercy she found a peace and rest to which she would 
otherwise have been a stranger. 

She was on her way home nne afternoon from a visit 
to the mission-school where she had first heard of the poor 
baby in Grubb’s court. All ^hat day thoughts of little 
Andy kept crowding- into her mind. She could not push 
aside his image as she saw it on Christmas, when he sat 
among the children, his large eyes resting in such a wist- 
ful look upon her face. Her eyes often grew dim and her 
heart full as she looked upon that tender face, pictured 
for her as distinctly as if photographed to natural sight. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


337 


“ OH my baby, my baby !” came almost audibly from 
her lips, in a burst of irrepressible feeling, for ever since 
she had seen this child, the thought of him linked itself 
with that of her lost baby. 

Up to this time her father had carefully concealed 
his interview with Mrs. Bray. He was in so much 
doubt as to the effect that woman’s communication might 
produce while yet the child was missing that he deemed 
it best to maintain the strictest silence until it could be 
found. 

Walking along with heart and thought where they 
dwelt for so large a part of her time, Edith, in turning a 
corner, came upon a -v^oman who stopped at sight of her 
as if suddenly fastened to the ground — stopped only for 
an instant, like one surprised by an unexpected and un- 
welcome encounter, and then made a motion to pass on. 
But Edith, partly from memory and partly from intui- 
tion, recognized her nurse, and catching fast hold of her, 
said, in a low imperative voice, while a look of wild ex- 
citement spread over her face, 

“ Where is my baby ?” 

The woman tried to shake her off, but Edith held her 
with a grasp that could not be broken. 

“ For Heaven’s sake,” exclaimed the woman, “ let go 
of me ! This is the public street, and -you’ll have a crowd 
about us in a moment, and the police with them.” 

But Edith kept fast hold of her. 

“ First tell me where ''1 can find my baby,” she an- 
swered. 

“ Come along,” said the woman, moving as she spoke 
29 W 


338 


CAST ADBIFT. 


in the direction Edith was going when they met. “ If you 
want a row with the police, I don’t.” 

Edith Avas close to her side, with her hand yet upon her 
and her voice in her ears. 

“My baby! Quick! Say! Where can I find my 
baby?” 

“What do I know of your baby? You are a fool, or 
mad !” answered the woman, trying to throw her off. “ I 
don’t know you.” 

“ But I know you, Mrs. Bray,’’ said Edith, speaking 
the name at a venture as the one she remembered hear- 
ing the servant give to her mother. 

At this the woman’s wdiole manner changed, and Edith 
saw that she was right — that this Avas, indeed, the accom- 
plice of her mother. 

“ And noAV,” she added, in a voice grown calm and res- 
olute, “ I do not mean to let you escape until I get sure 
knoAvledge of my child. If you fly from me, I Avill fol- 
low and call for the police. If you have any of the in- 
stincts of a woman left, you will know that I am des- 
perately in earnest. What is a street excitement or a 
temporary arrest by the police, or even a station-house 
exposure, to me, in comparison Avith the recovery of my 
child ? Where is he ?” 

“I do not knoAv,” replied Mrs. Bray. “After seeing 
your father — ” 

“My father! When did you see him?” exclaimed 
Edith, betraying in her surprised voice the fact that Mr. 
Dinneford had kept so far, even from her, the secret of 
that brief intervieAv to Avhich she now referred. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


339 


“Oh, he hasn’t told you! But it’s no matter; he will do 
that in good time. After seeing your father, I made an 
effort to get possession of your child and restore him as I 
promised to do. But the woman who had him hidden 
somewhere managed to keep out of my way until this 
morning. And now she says he got off from her,'climbed 
out of a second-story window and disappeared, no one 
knows where.” 

“ This woman’s name is Pinky Swett ?” said Edith. 

“ Yes.” 

Mrs. Bray felt the hand that was still upon her arm 
shake as if from a violent chill. 

“ Do you believe what she says ? — that the child has 
really escaped from her ?” 

“Yes.” . 

“ Where does she live ?” 

Mrs. Bray gave the true directions, and without hesita- 
tion. 

“ Is this child the one she stole from the Briar-street 
mission on Christmas day ?” asked Edith. 

“ He is,” answered Mrs. Bray. 

“How shall I know he is mine? What proof is there 
that little Andy, as he is called, and my baby are the 
same?” 

“ I know him to be your child, for I have never lost 
sight of him,” replied the woman, emphatically. “ You 
may know him by his eyes and mouth and chin, for they 
are yours. Nobody can mistake the likeness. But there 
is another proof. When I nursed you, I saw on your 
arm, just above the elbow, a small raised mark of a red 


340 


CAST ADBIFT. 


color, and noticed a similar one on the baby’s arm. You 
will see it there whenever you find the child that Pinky 
Swett stole from the mission-house on Christmas day. 
Good-bye 

And the woman, seeing that her companion was off of 
her guard, sprang away, and was out of sight in the crowd 
before Edith could rally herself and make an attempt to 
follow. How she got home she could hardly tell. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


"PI OR weeks the search for Andy was kept up with un- 
J- remitting vigilance, but no word of him came to the 
anxious searchers. A few days after the meeting with 
Mrs. Bray, the police report mentioned the arrest of both 
Pinky Swett and Mrs. Bray, alias Hoyt, alias Jewett, 
charged with stealing a diamond ring of considerable 
value from a jewelry store. They were sent to prison, in 
default of bail, to await trial. Mr. Dinneford immedi- 
ately went to the prison and had an interview with the 
two women, who could give him no information about 
Andy beyond what Mrs. Bray had already communi- 
cated in her hurried talk with Edith. Pinky could get no 
trace of him after he had escaped. Mr. Dinneford did 
not leave the two women until he had drawn from them 
a minute and circumstantial account of all they knew of 
Edith’s child from the time it was cast adrift. When he 
left them, he had no doubt as to its identity with Andy. 
There was no missing link in the chain of evidence. 

The new life that had opened to little Andy since the 
dreary night on which, like a stray kitten, he had crept 
into Andrew Hall’s miserable hovel, had been very plea- 
sant. To be loved and caressed was a strange and sweet 
experience. Poor little heart ! It fluttered in wild ter- 
ror, like a tiny bird in the talons of a hawk, when Pinky 
29 * 341 


342 


CAST ADBIFT. 


Swett swooped down and struck her foul talons into the 
frightened child and bore him off. 

“ If you scream, I’ll choke you to death !” she said, 
stooping to his ear, as 'she hurried him from the mission- 
house. Scared into silence, Andy did not cry out, and 
the arm that grasped and dragged him away was so 
strong that he felt resistance to be hopeless. Passing 
from Briar street. Pinky hurried on for a distance of a 
block, when she signaled a street-car. As she lifted 
Andy upon the platform, she gave him another whispered 
threat : 

“ Mind ! if you cry. I’ll kill you !” 

There were but few persons in the car, and Pinky 
carried the child to the upper end and sat him down with 
his face turned forward to the window, so as to keep it as 
much out of observation as possible. He sat motionless, 
stunned with surprise and fear. Pinky kept her eyes 
upon him. His hands were laid across his breast and 
held against it tightly. They had not gone far before 
Pinky saw great tear-drops falling upon the little hands. 

“ Stop crying !” she whispered, close to his ear ; “ I won’t 
have it ! You’re not going to be killed.” 

Andy tried to keep back the tears, but in spite of all 
he could do they kept blinding his eyes and falling over 
his hands. 

“What’s the matter with your little boy?” asked a 
sympathetic, motherly woman who had noticed the child’s 
distress. 

“ Cross, that’s all.” Pinky threw out the sentence in a 
snappish, mind-your-own-business tone. 


CAST ADRIFT. 


343 


The motherly woman, who had leaned forward, a look of 
kindly interest on her face, drew back, chilled by this re- 
pulse, but kept her eyes upon the child, greatly to Pinky’s 
annoyance. After riding for half a mile. Pinky got out 
and took another car. Andy was passive. He had ceased 
crying, and was endeavoring to get back some of the old 
spirit of brave endurance. He was beginning to feel like 
one who had awakened from a beautiful dream in which 
dear ideals had almost reached fruition, to the painful 
facts of a hard and suffering life, and was gathering up 
his patience and strength to meet them. He sat motion- 
less by the side of Pinky, with his eyes cast down, his 
chin on his breast and his lips shut closely together. 

Another ride of nearly half a mile, when Pinky left 
the car and struck away from the common thoroughfare 
into a narrow alley, down which she walked for a short dis- 
tance, and then disappeared in one of the small houses. 
Ho one happened to observe her entrance. Through a 
narrow passage and stairway she reached a second-story 
room. Taking a key from her pocket, she unlocked the 
door and went in. There was a fire in a small stove, and 
the room was comfortable. Locking the door on the in- 
side, she said to Andy, in a voice changed and kinder, 

« My ! your hands are as red as beets. Go up to the 
stove and warm yourself.” 

Andy obeyed, spreading out his little hands, and catch- 
ing the grateful warmth, every now and then looking up 
into Pinky’s face, and trying with a shrewder insight than 
is usually given to a child of his age to read the charac- 
ter and purposes it half concealed and half made known. 


344 


CAST ABBIFT, 


“ Now, Andy,’’ said Pinky, in a mild but very decided 
way — “ your name’s Andy ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” answered the child, fixing his large, in- 
telligent eyes on her face. 

“ Well, Andy, if you’ll be a good and quiet boy, you 
needn’t be afraid of anything — you won’t get hurt. .But 
if you make a fuss, I’ll throw you at once right out of the 
window.” 

Pinky frowned and looked so wicked as she uttered the 
last sentence that Andy was frightened. It seemed as if 
a devouring beast glared at him out of her eyes. She 
saw the effect of her threat, and was satisfied. 

The short afternoon soon passed away. The girl did 
not leave the room, nor talk with the child except in very 
low tones, so as not to attract the attention of any one in 
the house. As the day waned snow began to fall, and by 
the time night set in it was coming down thick and fast. 
As soon as it was fairly dark. Pinky wrapped a shawl 
about Andy, pinning it closely, so as to protect him from 
the cold, and quietly left the house. He made no resist- 
ance. A car was taken, in which they rode for a long 
distance, until they were on the outskirts of the city. The 
snow had already fallen to a depth of two or three inches, 
and the storm was increasing. When she left the car in 
that remote neighborhood, not a person was to be seen on 
the street. Catching Andy into her arms. Pinky ran with 
him for the distance of half a block, and then turned into 
a close alley with small houses' on each side. At the lower 
end she stopped before one of these houses, and without 
knocking pushed open the door. 


CAST ADRIFT, 345 

“ Who’s that ?” cried a voice from an upper room, the 
stairway to which led up from the room below. 

It’s me. Come down, and be quiet,” answered Pinky, 
in a warning voice. 

A woman, old and gray, with all the signs of a bad 
life on her wrinkled face, came hastily down stairs and 
confronted Pinky. 

“What now? What’s brought you here?” she de- 
manded, in no friendly tones. 

^ “There, there. Mother Peter! smooth down your 
feathers. I’ve got something for you to do, and it will 
pay,” answered Pinky, who had shut the outside door and 
slipped the bolt. 

At this, the manner of Mother Peter, as Pinky had 
called her, softened, and she said, 

“ What’s up ? What deviltry are you after now, you 
huzzy?” 

Without replying to this. Pinky began shaking the 
snow from Andy and unwinding the shawl with which 
she had bound him up. After he was free from his out- 
side wrappings, she said, looking toward the woman, 

“Now, isn’t he a nice little chap? Did you ever see 
such eyes?” 

The worn face of the woman softened as she turned 
toward the beautiful child, but not with pity. To that 
feeling she had long been a stranger. 

“ I want you to keep him for a few days,” said Pinky, 
speaking in the woman’s ears. “ I’ll tell you more about 
it after he’s in bed and asleep.” 

“He’s to be kept shut up out of sight, mind,” was 


346 


CAST ADRIFT. 


Pinky’s injunction, in tke conference tlia-t followed, Not 
a living soul in tke neighborliood must know lie’s in tke 
house, for the police will he sharp after him. I’ll pay 
you five dollars a week, and put it down in advance. 
Give him plenty to eat, and be as good to him as you 
can, for you see it’s a fat job, and I’ll make it fatter for 
you if all comes out right.” 

The woman w^as not slow to promise all that Pinky 
demanded. The house in which she lived had three 
rooms, one below and two smaller ones above. From the 
room below a stove-pipe went up through the floor into 
a sheet-iron drum in the small back chamber, and kept it 
partially heated.. It was arranged that Andy should be 
made a close prisoner in this room, and kept quiet by 
fear. It had only one window, looking out upon the 
yard, and there was no shed or porch over the door lead- 
ing into the yard below upon which he could climb out 
and make his escape. In order to have things wholly 
secure the two women, after Andy was asleep, pasted 
paper over the panes of glass in the lower sash, so that 
no one could see his face at the window, and fastened the 
sash down by putting a nail into a gimlet-hole at the top. 

“ I guess that will fix him,” said Pinky, in a tone of 
satisfaction. “ All you’ve got to do now is to see that he 
doesn’t make a noise.” 

On the next morning Andy was awake by day-dawn. 
At first he did not know where he was, but he kept very 
still, looking around the small room and trying to make 
out what it all meant. Soon it came to him, and a vague 
terror filled his heart. By his side lay the woman into 


CAST ADRIFT. 


347 


whose hands Pinky had given him. She was fast asleep, 
and her face, as he gazed in fear upon it, was even more 
repulsive than it had looked on the night before. His 
first impulse, after comprehending his situation, was to 
escape if possible. Softly and silently he crept out of 
bed, and made his way to the door. It was fastened. 
He drew the bolt back, when it struck the guard with a 
sharp click. In an instant the old woman was sitting 
up in bed and glaring at him. 

^‘You imp of Satan!” she cried, springing after him 
with a singular agility for one of her age, and catching 
him by the arm with a vice-like grip that bruised the 
tender flesh and left it marked for weeks, drew him 
back from the door and flung him upon the bed. 

“Stay there till I tell you to get up,” she added, with 
a cruel threat in her voice. “And mind you, there’s to 
be no fooling with me.” 

The frightened child crept under the bed-clothes, and 
hid his face beneath them. Mother Peter did not lie 
down again, but commenced dressing herself, muttering 
and grumbling as she did so. 

“ Keep where you are till I come back,” she said to 
Andy, with the same cruel threat in her voice. Going 
out, she bolted the door on the other side. It was nearly 
half an hour before the woman returned, bringing a 
plate, containing two or three slices of bread and butter 
.and a ciip of milk. 

“Now get up and dress yourself,” was her sharply- 
spoken salutation to Andy as she came into the room. 
“And you’re to be just as still as a mouse, mind. There’s 


348 


CAST ABBIFT. 


your breakfast.’’ She set the plate on a table and went 
out, bolting, as before, the door on the other side. Andy 
did not see her again for over an hour. Left entirely 
alone in his prison, his restless spirit chafed for freedom. 
He moved about the apartment, examining everything it 
contained with the closest scrutiny, yet without making 
any noise, for the woman’s threat, accompanied as it had 
been with such a wicked look, was not forgotten. He had 
seen in that look a cruel spirit of which he was afraid. 
Two or three times he thought he heard a step and a 
movement in the adjoining chamber, and waited, almost 
holding his breath, with his eyes upon the door, expect- 
ing every moment to see the scowling face of his jailer. 
But no hand touched the door. 

Tired at last with everything in the room, he went to 
the window and sought to look out, as he had already 
done many times. He could not understand why this 
window was so different from any he had ever seen, 
an(^puzzled over it in his weak, childish way. As he 
moved from pane to pane, trying to see through, he caught 
a glimpse of something outside, but it was gone in a mo- 
ment. He stepped back, then came up quickly to the 
glass, all the dull quietude of manner leaving him. As 
he did so a glimpse of the outside world came again, and 
now he saw a little hole in the paper not larger than a 
pin’s head. To scrape at this was a simple instinct. In 
a moment he saw it enlarging, as the paper peeled off 
from the glass. Scraping away with his finger-nail, the 
glass was soon cleared of paper for the space of an inch 
in diameter, and through this opening he stood gazing 


CAST ADRIFT. 


349 


out upon the yards below, and the houses that came up 
to them from a neighboring street. There was a woman 
in one of these yards, and she looked up toward the win- 
dow where Andy stood, curiously. 

“ You imp of Satan !” were the terrible words that fell 
upon his ears at this juncture, and he felt himself caught 
up as by a vulture. He knew the cruel voice and the 
grip of the cruel hands that had already left their marks 
in his tender flesh. Mother Peter, her face red with 
passion and her eyes glowing like coals of fire, held him 
high in the air, and shook him with savage violence. 
She did not strike, but continued shaking him until the 
sudden heat of her passion had a little cooled. 

“ Didn’t I tell you not to meddle with anything in this 
room ?” and with another bruising grip of Andy’s arms, 
she threw him roughly upon the fioor. 

The little hole in the paper was then repaired by 
pasting another piece of paper over it, after which Andy 
was left alone, but with a threat from Mother Peter that 
if he touched the window again she would beat the life 
out of him. She had no more trouble with him that day. 
Every half hour or so she would come up stairs noise- 
lessly and listen at the door, or break in upon the child 
suddenly and without warning. But she did not find 
him again at the window. The restlessness at first ex- 
hibited had died out, and he sat or lay upon the floor in 
a kind of dull, despairing stupor. So that day passed. 

On the second day of Andy’s imprisonment he dis- 
tinctly heard the old woman go out at the street door and 
lock it after her. He listened for a long time, but could 


30 


350 


CAST ADRIFT 


hear no sound in the house. A feeling of relief and a 
sense of safety came over him. He had not been so long 
in his prison alone without the minutest examination of 
every part, and it had not escaped his notice that the 
panes of glass in the upper sash of the window were not 
covered with paper, as were those below. But for the fear 
of one of Mother Peter’s noiseless pouncings in upon him, 
he would long since have climbed upon the sill and taken 
a look through the upper sash. He waited now for full 
half an hour to be sure that his jailer had left the house, 
and then, climbing to the window-sill with the agility of 
a squirrel, held on to the edge of the lower sash and 
looked out through the clear glass above. Dreary and 
unsightly as was all that lay under his gaze, it w^as beau- 
tiful in the eyes of the child. His little heart swelled 
and glowed ; he longed, as a prisoner, for freedom. As 
he stood there he saw that a nail held down the lower 
sash, which he had so often tried, but in vain, to lift. 
Putting his finger on this nail, he felt it move. It had 
been placed loosely in a gimlet-hole, and could be drawn 
out easily. For a little while he stood there, taking out 
and putting in the nail. While doing this he thought he 
heard a sound below, and instantly dropped noiselessly 
from the window. He had scarcely done so Avhen the 
door ‘of his room opened and Mother Peter came in. 
She looked at him sharply, and then retired without 
speaking. 

All the next day Andy listened after Mother Peter, 
waiting to hear her go out. But she did not leave the 
house until after he was asleep in the evening. 




TITE ESCAPE 


Si'O ^'"'1 





CAST ADRIFT. 


351 


On the next day, after waiting until almost noon, the 
child’s impatience of confinement grew so strong that he 
could no longer defer his meditated escape from the win- 
dow, for ever since he had looked over the sash and dis- 
covered how it was fastened down, his mind had been 
running on this thing. He had noticed that Mother 
Peter’s visits to his room were made after about equal in- 
tervals of time, and that after she gave him his dinner 
she did not come up stairs again for at least an hour. 
This had been brought, and he was again alone. 

For nearly five minutes after the woman went out, he 
sat by the untasted food, his head bent toward the door, 
listening. Then he got uj) quietly, climbed upon the 
window-sill and pulled the nail out. Dropping back 
upon the floor noiselessly, he pushed his hands upward 
against the sash, and it rose easily. Like an animal held 
in unwilling confinement, he did not stop to think of any 
danger that might lie in the way of escape when oppor- 
tunity for escape offered. The fear behind was worse 
than any imagined fear that could lie beyond. Pushing 
up the sash, Andy, without looking down from the win- 
dow, threw himself across the sill and dropped his body 
over, supporting himself with his hands on the snow-en- 
crusted ledge for a moment, and then letting himself fall 
to the ground, a distance of nearly ten feet. He felt his 
breath go as he swept through the air, and lost his senses 
for an instant or two. 

Stunned by the fall, he did not rise for several minutes. 
Then he got up with a slow, heavy motion and looked 
about him anxiously. He was in a yard from which 


352 


CAST ADBIFT. 


there was no egress except by way of the house. It was 
bitter cold, and he had on nothing but the clothing worn 
in the room from which he had just escaped. His head, 
was bare. 

The dread of being found here by Mother Peter soon 
lifted him above physical impediment or suffering. 
Through a hole in the fence he saw an alley- way ; and by 
the aid of an old barrel that stood in the yard, he climbed 
to the top of the fence and let himself down on the other 
side, falling a few feet. A sharp pain was felt in one of his 
ankles as his feet touched the ground. He had sprained 
it in his leap from the window, and now felt the first pangs 
attendant on the injury. 

Limping along, he followed the narrow alley-way, and 
in a little while came out upon a street some distance from 
the one in which Mother Peter lived. There were very 
few people abroad, and no one noticed or spoke to him 
as he went creeping along, every step sending a pain from 
the hurt ankle to his heart. Faint with suffering and 
chilled to numbness, Andy stumbled and fell as he tried, 
in crossing a street, to escape from a sleigh that turned a 
corner suddenly. It was too late for the driver to rein 
up his horse. One foot struck the child, throwing him 
out of the track of the sleigh. He was insensible when 
taken up, bleeding and apparently dead. A few people 
came out of the small houses in the neighborhood, at- 
tracted by the accident, but no one knew the child or 
offered to take him in. 

There were two ladies in the sleigh, and both were 
greatly pained and troubled. After a hurried consulta- 


CAST ADRIFT. 


353 


tion, one of them reached out her hands for the child, and 
as she received and covered him with the biiifalo-rohe 
said something to the driver, who turned his horse’s head 
and drove off at a rapid speed. 

30* X 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

E very home for friendless children, every sin or 
poverty-blighted ward and almost every hovel, gar- 
ret and cellar where evil and squalor shrunk from obser- 
vation were searched for the missing child, but in vain. 
No trace of him could be found. The agony of suspense 
into which Edith’s mind was brought was beginning to 
threaten her reason. It was only by the strongest effort 
at self-compulsion that she could keep herself to duty 
among the poor and suffering, and well for her it was 
that she did not fail here ; it was all that held her to 
safe mooring. 

One day, as she was on her way home from some visit 
of mercy, a lady who was passing in a carriage called to 
her from the window, at the same time ordering her driver 
to stop. The carriage drew up to the sidewalk. 

“ Come, get in,” said the lady as she pushed open the 
carriage door. “I was thinking of you this very mo- 
ment, and want to have some talk about our children’s 
hospital. We must have you on our ladies’ visiting com- 
mittee.” 

Edith shook her head, saying, “ It won’t be possible, 
Mrs. Morton. I am overtaxed now, and must lessen, in- 
stead of increasing, my work.” 

354 


CAST ADRIFT. 


355 


“ Never mind about that now. Get in. I want to have 
some talk with you.” 

Edith, who knew the lady intimately, stepped into the 
carriage and took a seat by her side. 

I don’t believe you have ever been to our hospital,” 
said the lady as the carriage rolled on. “ I’m going there 
now, and want to show you how admirably everything is 
conducted, and what a blessing it is to poor suffering chil- 
dren.” 

“ It hurts me so to witness suffering in little children,” 
returned Edith, « that it seems as if I couldn’t bear it 
much longer. I see so much of it.” 

“ The pain is not felt as deeply when we are trying to 
relieve that suffering,” answered her friend. “ I have 
come away from the hospital many times after spending 
an hour or two among the beds, reading and talking to 
the children, with an inward peace in my soul too deep 
for expression. I think that Christ draws very near to 
us while we are trying to do the work that he did when 
he took upon himself our nature in the world and stood 
face to face visibly with men — ^nearer to us, it may be, 
than at any other time; and in his presence there is 
peace — ^peace that passeth understanding.” 

They were silent for a little while, Edith not replyiug. 

We have now,” resumed the lady, “ nearly forty chil- 
dren under treatment — ^poor little things who, but for 
this charity, would have no tender care or intelligent 
ministration. Most of them would be lying in garrets or 
piiserable little rooms, dirty and neglected, disease eating 
out their lives, and pain that medical skill now relieves. 


356 


CAST ADRIFT. 


racking their poor worn bodies. I sat by the bed of a 
little girl yesterday who has been in the hospital over 
six months. She has hip disease. When she was brought 
here from one of the vilest places in the city, taken away 
from a drunken mother, she was the saddest-looking 
child I ever saw. Dirty, emaciated, covered with vermin 
and pitiable to behold, I could hardly help crying when 
I saw her brought in. Now, though still unable to leave 
her bed, she has as bright and happy a face as you ever 
saw. The care and tenderness received since she came to 
us have awakened a new life in her soul, and she exhibits 
a sweetness of temper beautiful to see. After I had read 
a little story for her yesterday, she put her arms about 
my neck and kissed me, saying, in her frank, impulsive 
way, ‘ Oh, Mrs. Morton, I do love you so f I had a great 
reward. Never do I spend an hour among these chil- 
dren without thanking God that he put it into the hearts 
of a few men and women who could be touched with the 
sufferings of children to establish and sustain so good an 
institution.” 

The carriage stopped, and the driver swung open the 
door. They were at the children’s hospital. Entering a 
spacious hall, the two ladies ascended to the second story, 
where the wards were located. There were two of these 
on opposite sides of the hall, one for boys and one for 
girls. Edith felt a heavy pressure on her bosom as they 
passed into the girls’ ward. She was coming into the pres- 
ence of disease and pain, of suffering and weariness, in 
the persons of little children. 

There were twenty beds in the room. Everything was 


CAST ADRIFT. 


357 


faultlessly clean, and the air fresh and pure. On most 
of these beds lay, or sat up, supported by pillows, sick or 
crippled children from two years of age up to fifteen oi 
sixteen, while a few were playing about the room. Edith 
caught her breath and choked back a sob that came 
swiftly to her throat as she stood a few steps within the 
door and read in a few quick glances that passed from 
face to face the sorrowful records that pain had written 
upon them. 

“Oh, there’s Mrs. Morton!” cried a glad voice, and 
Edith saw a girl who was sitting up in one of the beds 
clap her hands joyfully. 

“ That’s the little one I was telling you about,” said 
the lady, and she crossed to the bed, Edith following. 
The child reached up her arms and put them about Mrs. 
Morton’s neck, kissing her as she did so. 

It took Edith some time to adjust herself to the scene 
before her. Mrs. Morton knew all the children, and had 
a word of cheer or sympathy for most of them as she 
passed from bed to bed through the ward.. Gradually 
the first painful impressions wore ofi*, and Edith felt her- 
self drawn to the little patients, and before five minutes 
had passed her heart was full of a strong desire to do 
whatever lay in her power to help and comfort them. 
After spending half an hour with the girls, during which 
time Edith talked and read to a number of them, Mrs. 
Morton said, 

“ Now let us go into the boys’ ward.” 

They crossed the hall together, and entered the room 
on the other side. Here, as in the opposite ward, Mrs. 


358 


CAST ADRIFT, 


Morton was recognized as a welcome visitor. Every face 
that happened to be turned to the door brightened at her 
entrance. 

“ There’s a deai: child in this ward,” said Mrs. Morton 
as they stood for a moment in the door looking about the 
room. “ He was picked up in the street about a week 
ago, hurt by a passing vehicle, and brought here. We 
have not been able to learn anything about him.” 

Edith’s heart gave a sudden leap, but she held it 
down with all the self-control she could assume, trying to 
be calm. 

“ Where is he ?” she asked, in a voice so altered from 
its natural tone that Mrs. Morton turned and looked at 
her in surprise. 

“Over in that corner,” she answered, pointing down 
the room. 

Edith started forward, Mrs. Morton at her side. 

“Here he is,” said the latter, pausing at a bed on which 
a child with fair face, blue eyes and golden hair was 
lying. A single glance sent the blood back to Edith’s 
heart. A faintness came over her; everything grew 
dark. She sat down to keepjrom falling. 

As quickly as possible and by another strong effort of 
will she rallied herself. 

“ Yes,” she said, in a faint undertone in which was no 
apparent interest, “ he is a dear little fellow.” 

As she spoke she laid her hand softly on the child’s 
head, but not in a way to bring any response. He looked 
at her curiously, and seemed half afraid. 

Meanwhile, a child occupying a bed only a few feet 


CAST ADBIFT. 


off liad started up quickly on seeing Edith, and now sat 
with his large brown eyes fixed eagerly upon her, his 
lips apart and his hands extended. But Edith did not 
notice him. Presently she got up from beside the bed 
and was turning away when the other child, with a kind 
of despairing look in his face, cried out. 

Lady, lady ! oh, lady I” 

The voice reached Edith’s ears. She turned and saw 
the face of Andy. Swift as a flash she was upon him, 
gathering him in her arms and crying out, in a wild pas- 
sion of joy that could not be repressed, 

“Oh, my baby! my baby! my boy! my boy! Bless 
God ! thank God ! oh, my baby !” 

Startled by this sudden outcry, the resident physician 
and two nurses who were in the ward hurried down the 
room to see what it meant. Edith had the child hugged 
tightly to her bosom, and resisted all their efforts to 
remove him. 

“ My dear madam,” said the doctor, “ you will do him 
some harm if you don’t take care.” 

“Hurt my baby? Oh no, no!” she answered, relax- 
ing her hold and gazing down upon Andy as she let him 
fall away from her bosom. Then lifting her eyes to the 
physician, her face so flooded with love and inexpressible 
joy that it seemed like some heavenly transfiguration, she 
murmured, in a low voice full of the deepest tenderness, 

“ Oh no. I will not do my baby any harm.” 

“ My dear, dear friend,” said Mrs. Morton, recovering 
from the shock of her first surprise and fearing that 
Edith had suddenly lost her mind, “you cannot mean 


360 


CAST ADRIFT. 


what you say f and she reached down for the child and 
made a movement as if she were going to lift him away 
from her arms. 

A look of angry resistance swept across Edith’s pale 
face. There was a flash of defiance in her eyes. 

No, no ! You must not touch him,” she exclaimed ; 
“ I will die before giving him up. My baby !” 

And now, breaking down from her intense excitement, 
she bent over the child again, weeping and sobbing. 
Waiting until this paroxysm had expended itself, Mrs. 
Morton, who had not failed to notice that Andy never 
turned his eyes for an instant away from Edith, nor 
resisted her strained clasp or wild caresses, but lay pas- 
sive against her with a look of rest and peace in his 
face, said. 

How shall we know that he is your baby ?” 

At this Edith drew herself up, the light on her counte- 
nance fading out. Then catching at the child’s arm, she 
pulled the loose sleeve that covered it above the elbow 
with hands that shook like aspens. Another cry of joy 
broke from her as she saw a small red mark standing out 
clear from the snowy skin. She kissed it over and over 
again, sobbing, 

“My baby! Yes, thank God! my own long-lost 
baby !” 

And still the child showed no excitement, but lay very 
quiet, looking at Edith whenever he could see her counte- 
nance, the peace and rest on his face as unchanging as if 
it were not really a living and mobile face, but one cut 
into this expression by the hands of an artist. 



FOUND AT LAST 


See page 360 




I 


« 


4 ^ 



* *• 


V 


• ^ I - , 


> 


o 





"‘I-' 

I I « 


u 


TT *• 


• ii 

t 







CAST ADRIFT. 


361 


“ How shall you know ?” asked Edith, now remember- 
ing the question of Mrs. Morton. And she drew up her 
own sleeve and showed on one of her arms a mark as 
clearly defined and bright as that on the child’s arm. 

No one sought to hinder Edith as she rose to her feet 
holding Andy, after she had wrapped the bed-clothes 
about him. 

Come !” she spoke to her friend, and moved away with 
her precious burden. 

“ You must go with us,” said Mrs. Morton to the phy- 
sician. 

They followed as Edith hurried down stairs, and enter- 
ing the carriage after her, were driven away from the 
hospital. 

31 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


A bout the same hour that Edith entered the boys* 
ward of the children’s hospital, Mr. Dinneford met 
Granger face to face in the street. The latter tried to 
pass him, but Mr. Dinneford stopped, and taking his 
almost reluctant hand, said, as he grasped it tightly, 

“ George Granger !” in a voice that had in it a kind of 
helpless cry. 

The yoirng man did not answer, but stood looking at 
him in a surprised, uncertain way. 

“ George,” said Mr. Dinneford, his utterance broken, 
“ we want you I” 

“ For what ?” asked Granger, whose hand still lay in 
that of Mr. Dinneford. He had tried to withdraw it at 
first, but now let it remain. 

“ To help us find your child.” 

“ My child ! What of my child ?” 

‘‘Your child and Edith’s,” said Mr. Dinneford. “ Come !” 
and he drew his arm within that of Granger, the two men 
moving away together. “ It has been lost since the day 
of its birth — cast adrift through the same malign influ- 
ence that cursed your life and Edith’s. We are on its 
track, but baffled day by day. Oh, George, we want you, 
frightfully wronged as you have been at our hands — ^not 
Edith’s. Oh no, George! Edith’s heart has never turned 
862 


CAST ADRIFT. 


363 


from you for an instant, never doubted you, though in her 
weakness and despair she was driven to sign that fatal 
application for a divorce. If it were not for the fear of 
a scornful rejection, she would be reaching out her hands 
to you now and begging for the old sweet love, but such 
a rejection would kill her, and she dare not brave the 
risk.” 

Mr. Dinneford felt the young man’s arm begin to trem- 
ble violently. 

‘‘ We want you, George,” he pursued. “ Edith’s heart 
is calling out for you, that she may lean it upon your 
heart, so that it break not in this great trial and suspense. 
Your lost baby is calling for you out of some garret or 
cellar or hovel where it lies concealed.. Come, my son. 
The gulf that lies between the dreadful past and the 
blessed future can be leaped at a single bound if you 
choose to make it. We want you — Edith and I and 
your baby want you.” 

Mr. Dinneford, in his great excitement, was hurrying 
the young man along at a rapid speed, holding on to his 
arm at the same time, as if afraid he would puU it away 
and escape. 

Granger made no response, but moved along passively, 
taking in every word that was said. A great light 
seemed to break upon his soul, a great mountain to be 
lifted off. He did not pause at the door from which, 
when he last stood there, he had been so cruelly rejected, 
but went in, almost holding his breath, bewildered, uncer- 
tain, but half realizing the truth of what was transpiring, 
like one in a dream. 


364 


CAST ADRIFT. 


« Wait here,” said Mr. Dinneford, and lie left him in 
the parlor and ran up stairs to find Edith. 

George Granger had scarcely time to recognize the 
objects around him, when a carriage stopped at the door, 
and in a moment afterward the bell rang violently. 

The image that next met his eyes was that of Edith 
standing in the parlor door with a child all bundled up 
in bed-clothing held closely in her arms. Her face 'was 
trembling with excitement. He started forward on see- 
ing her with an impulse of love and joy that he could 
not restrain. She saw him, and reading his soul in his 
eyes, moved to meet him. 

“ Oh, George, and you too I” she exclaimed. “ My baby 
and my husband, all, at once ! It is too much. I cannot 
bear it all !” 

Granger caught her in his arms as she threw herself 
upon him and laid the child against his breast. 

“Yours and mine,” she sobbed. “Yours and mine, 
George !” and she put up her face to his. Could he do 
less than cover it with kisses? 

A few hours later, and a small group of very near 
friends witnessed a difierent scene from this. Not another 
tragedy, as might well be feared, under the swift reac- 
tions that came upon Edith. No, no! She did not die 
from excess of joy, but was filled with new life and 
strength. Two hands broken asunder so violently a few 
years ago were now clasped again, and the minister of 
God as he laid them together pronounced in trembling 
tones the marriage benediction. 

This was the scene, and here we drop the curtain. 


The following can be supplied by the Agents of this Book. 


God grant that this precious book may find its way to every family 

in the land !” 


THREE YEARS IN A MAN-TRAP. 

(A Oompamon to "TEN NIQHTS IN A BAE-BOOM.") 



Slowly and heavily the prostrate old man rose upon one elbow and looked 
16 face of his dead "wife."— Three Years in a Man-Trap. Page 57. 


BY 

i T. S. 

lilEAUTXPULLT ILLUSTKATED ANIJ TSOTTWTi -pTiTn^' 4o 


A BOOK OF PRICELESS VALUE.' 


A TEMPERANCE BOOK from a skilled hand, free from exaggeralioii, yet prc 
foundly in earnest, has long been greatly needed, and now the exigencies o 
the times demand it. The struggle with the great enemy of the people ha 
fairly begun, and it must be fought out to the bitter end. 

To awaken the people to a sense of their danger is the first work to be don( j 
When fairly aroused, organized and in motion, the people become a livin 
power that nothing can withstand. As a means to this great end, the publisher 
offer this new book, written at their special solicitation, by the well-known autlu j| 
of Ten Nights in a Bar-Room,” a revelation of the evils of liquor-selling i 
true to nature, so vivid in pictorial effect and so strong in its delineation c 
character and incident that it took the people by surprise, and has for neari 
twenty years held its own among the most popular books of the day. No oth( 
temperance writer has so stirred the hearts of the people to their profounde j 
depths as the author of this book. 

In his new volume, “ Three Years in A Man-Trap ” (a companion an 
complement of “Ten Nights in a Bar-Room”), the author again grappL 
with the monster Intemperance, but in a new field, and with enemies mo’ 
thoroughly disciplined and organized. From a quiet country village with i 
“Sickle and Sheaf” he turns to a great^city with its six or seven thousar 
saloons and dram-shops, and uncovers the deadly ulcer that is eating steadi 
down toward the vitals of the people. 

From the first page to the last the reader will find himself in the midst < 
stirring scenes and incidents of the most exciting character. In truth to natui 
in vividness of description, in dramatic skill and the expression of intense em 
tion, and, above all, in the living earnestness and practical power of the book, 
will be 'Ound even superior to “ Ten Nights.” 

Especially is this book distinguished for its close fidelity to truth, and her# 
lies the secret of its power. No picture is overdrawn, no scene exaggerate 
Fearful, pathetic, tender even to tears, sorrowful and painful as many of I 
representations are, they do not in any case exceed the sad and solemn truth. 

And now, friends of temperance, we offer you this book as a powerful aux 
iary in the cause for which you are arraying your forces with the stern intent ( 
battle. Few, if any, can read it aijd not come over to your side. 

It should go into every household in the land, and be read by every meml 
thereof. The artisan, the clerk, the merchant, the professional man, will ea 
find in it his lesson, his warning and his inspiration to duty. 

Read it, citizens, tax-payers, fathers, mothers, wives, and from its stern < 
positions, its appalling statistics, its arguments and living witnesses, get soi 
faint impression of the work a hundred and fifty thousand men, licensed to spre 
disease, death and unutteraJjle woe through all the land, are doing — licensed 
make paupers and criminals — licensed to make widows and orphans — liceiis 
to squander the poor man’s substance and make homes desolate. 

It will be a revelation to startle and appall, but cannot fail to rouse you 
the work of resistance, change and revolution. 

N, B. Since the publication of this book, a short time ago, nearly 5o,c 
copies have already reached the eyes of the people, and the testimony of In 
dreds gives the most unqualified proof of the immense amount of good th^t 
hflc nrrnm-nliRbpd. 


“1 


k 




WHAT IS SAID OF IT. 


“The author of *Ten Nights in a Bar-Room'* has again, in this ‘Three 
KA&s IN A jVIan-Trap,’ rendered service beyond price to the cause of temper- 
ice, virtue, and the preservation of happy homes. . . , Let the drinkseller, the 
Innker and the citizen read the book and learn the horrid consequences which 
ijllow liquor-selling.” 

IION. JAMES BLACK, 

I P. R. W. G. C. of I. O. of G. T. 

1“ Should be put into every family, that young men, and women too, may learn 
e dangers of the seductive ‘ traps ’ which, under the sanction oi the law, waylay 
e unwary on every hand. , . A most important acquisition to the temperance 
erature of the day.” 

ROBT. M. FOUST, 

P, M. W. P. Nat. Div. S. of T., N. A. 

“I am satished that its object and tendency are such as to commend it to the 
reful and earnest attention of all who desire a better state of things.” 

^ W. J. MULLIN, 

Prison Agent, Philadelphia. 

*1 hasten to express my gratitude to the author for furnishing us a so 
>Iete with stirring, thrilling and home-searching life pictures. Mr. Arthur has 
le the country an immense service. It should find a place in every library and 
included in every Sabbath-school collection. Although thrillingly interesting, 
s not at all overdrawn : every reader will see at a glance characters in every- 
1 life directly corresponding with the ones here given. God grant that this 
)cious book may find its way to every family in the land /” 

GEO. H. HICKS, 

N. G. S. of I. O. of G. S. and D. of S. 

^ The fearful doom of the drunkard and the danger which besets the moderate 
nker are graphically depicted. . . . We predict for this work as great a suc- 
B, financially and morally, as has attended its companion, ‘ Ten Nights in a 
'-Room.’ ” — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 

' I heartily approve of the sentiments expressed by T. S. Arthur, author of 
iree Years in a Man-Trap,’ and sincerely wish it to be read by all classes of 
:ety.” 

C. I. H. CARTER, 

i Pastor of Assumption (Catholic) Church, Philadelphia. 

It is inevitably sensational for a good purpose, and likely to exercise a 
^erful impression on the mind by showing the sequence of crime — punisa* 
it, repentance and reformation.” — Philadelphia Press. 


t)ppiCB OP G. W. c. T., I. O. O. T., I 
Great Bend Village, Pn. J 

*‘The copy of ‘Three Years in a Man-Trap,’ so kindly sent me, has been reai 
with intense interest It vividly and strongly portrays the inside enormity an( 
hellishness of the liquor traffic, as well as the deplorable and destructive in 
fluences flowing from it I heartily commend it to the friends of the cause oi 
humanity as a book profitable to be read and widely circulated. ”4 

S. B. CHASE, 

Presiding Officer Good Templars of Penna. 

“ Every Sabbath-school library should have it, and every family, for its son 
and daughters, should have a copy. . . . The literary execution of the work is ii 
Mr. Arthur’s best vein, and the appearance of the volume is most opportune.” 

NEAL DOW. 

“ The narrative is well worked up, and exposes unsparingly the tricks of th( 
liquor-sellers.” — Philadelphia Inquirer. 

“ The present measures looking to reform are introduced and bravely backe< 
up in this boolc. ... We do not know where to stop writing about such a worl 
as this. God bless the hand that has penned it I Its perusal will mark a might 
revolution, for who can doubt its truth or withstand its testimony? . . . Le 
everybody read \V*— Methodist Home Journal. 

“ It is one of the author’s best efforts, and should find its way into every family- 
— Item, HammontoUt N. J. 

“It treats of a vital subject affecting our social and political life, and i 
throughout a most interesting and instructive book.” — NewSf Chestertouun, Md. 

“ The reader is held by a fascination he cannot break. . , , ” — Keystone Good 
Templar. 

“ Is as timely as it is powerful. We shall be disappointed if it does not creat 
even more sensation than ‘ Ten Nights in a Bar-Room.’ ” — Philadelphia Evenin^ 
Star 

"No one can arise from its perusal without being morally bettered or strength 
ened in his conviction of the evil effects of intemperance.”— Lancoi 
tert Pa. 

“ In this interesting volume, the author, Mr. T. S. Arthur, whose fertile min 
has always been employed in the service of public morals, has depicted th 
ruinous effect of the liquor-traffic in lai'ge cities with great force of statenier 
and felicity of illustration. His sketches, which are marked by equal vigor an 
naturalness, are apparently drawn from real life, and at all events their protc 
types may be found at the corners of the streets, presenting the hideous example 
in the original which are here faithfully copied in bold and impressive language 
Mr. Arthur has produced a work which well sustains the character of his formi 
writings, and gives him fresh claims to public esteem as a devoted and abl, 
advocate of social morality.” — A^. Y. Tribune. 1! 

“ ‘ Three Years in a Man-Trap,’ by T. S. Arthur — a thrilling Temperanc' 
'tory, intended as a companion to his very popular ‘ Ten Nights in a Bar-Room 


Specimen Page of “ Three Years in a Man- TrapP 


56 Three Years in a Man-Trap, 

sweet old face. It was death ! Lying on the floor, 
just in front of the settee, face down, was Flint, mo- 
tionless as the dead form above him, his white, abun- 
dant hair shining like silver in the few rays of sun- 
shine that came in through a corner of the window 
where the shade was broken, and fell just where his 
head was resting. 

I lost my breath for several moments, my head 
swam, I felt as if about to fall from some great 
height. As . I stood thus spellbound I saw the 
still form on the floor stir. Then a strong shiver 
ran through it, and then slowly and heavily the 
prostrate old man rose upon one elbow and looked 
at the face of his dead wife. 

“ God help me !” he groaned, falling back upon 
the floor with a heavy thud. The sorrow and de- 
spair in his voice were terrible. 

One of the policemen new bent over him, and 
grasping his arm, said, not roughly, but almost 
tenderly, 

“ Come.” He did not move. 

Come !” The policeman repeated his command, 
pulling on his arm as he did so, and raising him 
partly up by main force. At this, Flint seemed to 
comprehend what was meant, and yielded passively 
when another of the policemen took hold of him. 
As he stood erect I saw his face for the first time. 
It was so haggard and pinched and awfully wretched 
that I scarcely knew it. 

The policeman drew the miserable old man toward 

5 


A BOOK FOR YOUNG W O M E N M 


A. BOOK KOK. WIVKSn 



FRESH AND FADED. 



r.v , .;i 

T- S. 


4UTH0R OF “TEN EIGHTS IN A BAR-ROOM “ Etc. 


A T? O O Tv TO (> 1 1 U « R T> ! ! 

ft 


A BOOK FOR YOUNG MEN!! 


Orange Blossoms 


; 


FRESH AND FADED, 


P'OR more than a quarter of a century Mr. T. S. Arthur has 
maintained a prominent and leading position among the authors 
and writers of this country. His books have had a wide circu- 
lation both in America and Europe. His writings possess 
peculiarities that endear them to ail good people. His stories 
have carried peace and brightness to thousands of homes. 
They are full of lessons of beautiful truth, and are designed to 
• awaken and keep alive the tenderest affections of our nature, 
to strengthen virtue, to increase domestic joy, and to sweeten 
f home-life by the abiding presence of mutual trust and love. 

In this new volume he gives us a series of life-pictures drawn 
with that skill and power which is peculiarly his own; never 
weak, always deeply in earnest and frequently intense in dra- 
matic effect, he has brought to the subject here discussed his 
subtlest discrimination and highest effort. 

It is not a book of precept dond cold advice, but, as just said, of 
I clearly drawn life-pictures. Men and women bound by the con- 
I jugal tie are brought before the reader, and he looks down into 
their lives and sees the pulses of feeling — sees in some cases 
the “ little foxes ” at work “ spoiling the tender vines,” and in 
other cases the peace and rest and joy of married beauty. 


It is a book for all people, young or old, rich or poor, for the 
husbands as well as wives, for the happy and the unhappy. 

No American author treating this subject could write so good^ 
and useful a work as Mr. Arthur. 

At this time many of our most talented and popular writers^ 
are putting forth false and pernicious views of marriage, lower- 
ing the tone of public morals and doing an untold social injury : 
the publishers offer this as an antidote to such pernicious views : 

“ Orange Blossoms” is a healthy book, and its wide circulation 
cannot fail to do a great amount of good. 

Assured of the intrinsic merit of the work, the publishers beg 
leave to announce that they have spared neither pains nor ex 
pense in its mechanical execution. It is printed vvitli new and 
large, clear-faced type on fine tinted paper, and is handsomely 
bound in the best manner, with black and gold ornamentation on 
back and sides, and appropriate inlaid stamp. It is elegandy 
illustrated with superior pictures engraved by Lauderbach after 
designs by Schuessele and Bensell, and contains an accurate 
and beautiful likeness of the author on steel engraved at great 
expense b)' the celebrated artist, J. L. Rice. To ensure a large 
sale of this elegant volume, the price has been fixed so low as 
to be within reach of all. 


(Jt'oivn SvOf Superior Cloth, Gilt, Inlaid Side Stamp, $2,50, 


specimen Page of Orange Blossoms, 


1 - 


96 TEN YEARS AFTER MARRIAGE, 

And now Mrs. Howland left her chamber 
again. Her slippered feet gave no sound as 
they, moved over the carpet, and she came to 
the open door of the sitting-room without be- 
traying a sign of her approach. There she 
stood still. Mr. Howland was not at the table 
reading, as she had left him, but at his secretary, 
which was open. He was reclining his head on 
one hand and gazing down upon something 
held in the other, and seemed wholly absorbed. 
For more than a minute he remained in this 
fixed attitude, his wife as still as himself. Then 
a long sigh trembled on the air, and then lift- 
ing the object on which his gaze Vvas directed, 
Mr. Howland pressed it to his lips, kissing it al- 
most passionately three or four times. A wild 
throb leaped along Mrs. Howland’s veins. Then 
her heart grew still as in the presence of some 
unknown but stupendous evil. Something 
impelled her to spring forward and read this 
mystery, and something as strongly held her 
back. As she stood, pale now and in a tremor, 
the object was kissed again, and then returned 
to a drawer in the secretary from which it had 
been taken. In this act for an instant the 
miniature of a lady met the gaze of Mrs. How- 


** A book of intense interest and inestimable worth.*' 


TESTIlvd;03Sri-A.XjS 

y — OP — 

t* 

]^Ew /nd Popular Work 

ORANGE BLOSSOMS 
Fresh and Faded. 

Elegantly printed on tinted paper, superbly illustrated and hound in 
a unique and sumptuous manner. 


“The purest and best book of its kind ever issued from any press.” — 

, Hazleton Sentinel. 

“Its crowding incidents hurry on the reader to its conclusion with 
almost breathless interest. ... Its numerous actors as the author 
depicts them, are living, breathing, men and women, who tell the story 
to the reader in the passages of their lives, which have been selected with 
so skilful a hand. ... It cannot but bring a crowning success to the 
long and successful career of the distinguished author.” — Banner of 
Light, Boston. 

“Candor, honesty and explicit confidence between married persons is 
shown in this work to constitute the ground work of conjugal happi- 
ness.” — GathoUc Standard, Philadelphia. 

“ He seeks in a variety of pleasing ways to point out the perils, and 
promote the felicities of married life, with a view to presei^n the sanc- 
tities and harmonies of home.” — Boston Daily Transcript. 

“In ‘Orange Blossoms,’ are many stories of society, written with 
grace, case and truth, each with a practical moral at the bottom. The 
book is full of life and spirit . . . very readable. . . . The oma- 

10 


PRESS TESTIMOmALS, 


mental binding may be taken as expressive of the publishers own appre- 
ciation of the work.” — Philadelphia Press. 

** The arrow that he presses home now, is the necessity of a happy 
married life, and this is feathered by six and twenty incidents fastened to 
and constituting the shaft. Each is good, and all with varied degrees of 
dramatic power, enforce conclusions of admitted merit.” — 

North American^ of Philadelphia. 

** Not only pleasantly written, but has a practical value — not only pure 
in tone, but manifests a definite purpose, and that of the most elevated 
character. The volume is one which in the hands of the young especially, 
is calculated to be productive of much good.” — Philadelphia Inquirer, 

“A new book from the pen of T. S. Arthur, one of the most famous 
of American Authors. . . . The pictures drawn by the author are 

characteristic of his great dramatic skill, and cannot possibly fail to have 
that excellent moral effect included in his excellent design.” — Boston 
Times. 

“The book ought to find its way into every household in our land. 
We know of no book of equal merit. ... Is evidently the result of 
noble Christian purpose. His theme is of the utmost importance and inter- 
est.” — Watchman and Reflector. 

“ Is calculated to do more towards sweetening the cup of family caro 
and trial than any homilies that could bo delivered.” — Zion's Herald. 

“ Everything that T. S. Arthur writes, is good, this is a book of life 
pictures, takes you into other times, and makes you familiar with other 
experiences.” — Saturday Evening Post. 

“ Deserves a wide sale and we are glad to know is achieving an im- 
mense popularity.”— (7% Item. 

“ Is the best we have read of his works.” — Alleghany Times. 

“ All who want their Orange Blossoms to remain fresh and fragrant up 
to old age ought to read this book. All who want to learn why and how 
they often fade so early, will find the mystery solved. Is a healthy 
book, and its wide circulation cannot fail to do good as an antidote to the 
pernicious works which are daily weakening the social ties.” — 

Milton Miltonian. 

“ Worth a place among the purest productions of the day. Delicacy 
of sentiment and nobility of purpose are its chief characteristics, and we 
wish for it a place among our household influences* . . Will interest 

both young and old. — Philadelphia Age. 


11 


CirAB3IIJVG JUVENILE,’^ 


THE 

WONDERFUL STORY 

OF 

GENTLE HAND. 

BY 

T. S. ARTHUR.- 


This is one of the celebrated author’s most powerful and inter- 
esting stories. It is a departure from the old conventional style 
of children’s books, and will have a large and appreciative circula- 
tion. 

“ T. S. Arthur’s sweetest story for children.” — Boston Daily Nezvs, 

“ The young folks will greedily devour the contents of this pretty 
volume. ... A very handsome volume for children.” — Globe ^ St, 
John's, N. B. 

“ From the pen of the prince of writers for the young.” — Standard, 
Netv Bedford, Mass. 

“ One of the popular author’s best books.” — Ruralist, Cincinnati, 
Ohio. 

“ Every child would be pleased in the possession of such a book.” 
— Onondaga Gazette. 

Is superbly and freely illustrated with fine wood engravings by 
the best artists, carefully printed on extra tinted paper, and elegantly 
bound in a novel and effective style, with gilt side and illuminated 
centre. 

II I C E , ^3.00.' 

12 


3477-6 




1 




I 

I 


I, 


r 

I 




i 



' 

V 




I /’ 


I I 


hV'^4.; ’’.UfAl .-a-'H 'll ,1 5' . 




I ..♦■ 




:V 


Y' 


rff 




t 


i 



t 




i 


t 


i 

t 




I -• 


i 


f 

i 


H 


\ 

. « 

I 


I 


* - 








> 

> 


» 




I s 




I 


\ 



« 





k r 

\ 


y 





